


the singer and the sellsword

by Engineer104



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Blood and Injury, Bodyguard Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Or is there?, Slow Burn, Some crude language, but i went overboard what's new, thinly veiled excuse to write 'there was only one bed'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:55:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 90,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26023036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Engineer104/pseuds/Engineer104
Summary: When Annette’s entire escort is slaughtered in an Empire ambush, she barely escapes with the help of a now-dead friend. She has no one to turn to when the lone sellsword she approaches refuses her when she can’t pay him, only for him to quickly change his mind.But a continent is a long distance to cross when an assassin dogs their every step, and for Felix it may just be a job, but for Annette it can very well be her life.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 211
Kudos: 165
Collections: Felannie Mini Bang 2020





	1. someone will help me

**Author's Note:**

> AHA I've been sitting on this fic for months and I finally get to inflict it on the world! Based on an idea i've had for forever, though it built into something way larger than i thought it would (the longest fic i'd ever written at the time i finished it ha).
> 
> Note: I rated the fic M to err on the side of caution with respect to (1) violence, (2) injuries, and (3) crass language. I'll warn ahead of chapters accordingly so you know what to expect and if you need to avoid.
> 
> This is written for the Felannie Mini Bang ~~though the fic is far from mini whoops~~. My artist partner was [Shen](https://twitter.com/animeshen), and I'll link to her art at the end!
> 
> Without further ado, please enjoy!

The young woman sitting across the table from Felix has seen better days. Her plaited hair frizzes, there are tears in her dress on her arm and in the hem along with countless stains, and she favored one leg when she first approached him and informed him that the innkeeper tipped her off that he’s a mercenary between jobs.

And despite her bedraggled appearance spelling trouble - despite her demeanor setting him on edge - something in her steely blue gaze made him agree to hear her out.

“My name is Annette, um”—her eyes dart around the common room, and she lowers her voice—”Dominic. I’m looking to hire someone to escort me from here all the way to Gloucester in the Alliance.” The woman’s teacup rattles as she sets it down in her saucer.

Felix recognizes fear when he sees it; he can’t miss how stiffly she holds herself as if preparing to flee at the first sign of danger. She reminds him of a rabbit, all twitching ears and shining eyes, alert for predators.

He’s not in the business of protecting rabbits.

“I’m not a bodyguard,” he tells her, leaning back in his chair now that he’s lost interest. “If you need one, Miss Dominic, I’m sure the head of your house can lend you a knight.”

Miss Dominic’s hands, resting on the table, curl into fists. “Well, thank you for the kind suggestion, Sir Sellsword,” she says tartly, “but that’s not exactly an option for me.”

A flicker of irritation hits Felix. “I’m not a knight either, and since I’m not I can refuse any job that comes my way.”

“How nice for you,” she replies. Then, something on her face changes, and she wonders, “Why won’t you accept this one?”

“It simply doesn’t interest me,” Felix admits. His hand falls to the hilt of his sword, not that there’s a good reason to draw it at the moment; his refusal might frustrate Annette, but he doubts she’ll lash out for it. “Also, you’re terrible at negotiating; you haven’t even made me any offer.”

Miss Dominic’s cheeks color such a vivid red he wonders if she’s caught a fever. “Oh, you’re right,” she says. She starts rummaging in her small carpetbag, humming as she does. Her voice turns into mumbled nonsense Felix can’t quite catch.

He taps his fingers against the table, forcing down his impatience; he’d been having an almost pleasant evening before she turned up too…

“That can’t be right…” Miss Dominic mutters, a wrinkle forming in her brow. “My pockets, may—oh!” she gasps, eyes widening in horror. “Oh no oh no oh no.”

“What?” Felix says, more out of habit than any real curiosity.

She raises her carpetbag to reveal a slit in the bottom, lined with short, scraggly threads. It’s a small tear, not wide enough to release most of its contents but plenty to liberate something small and precious…like a coin purse.

“I put my coin at the bottom so no one could see it when I dug for it,” Miss Dominic bemoans in a low voice. “Oh _no_ , my uncle gave me that money for the journey.”

“If you can’t pay me,” Felix says in as measured a voice as he can manage, “then you’re only wasting my time.”

“Please…” Miss Dominic’s whole demeanor shifts, any trace of indignation or defiance evaporating. She reaches across the table and grabs his arm. “Sir—whatever your name is—”

“Felix,” he provides her automatically.

“Felix,” she tries again as she takes a breath that makes her whole small frame tremble, “I wouldn’t be asking a random sellsword I’ve never met before for help if I wasn’t desperate.”

He shakes her hold off. “You’re trouble,” he says, “and I want nothing to do with it.”

“You don’t understand,” Miss Dominic insists. She clasps her hands together as if she’s praying, but Felix has never seen anyone pray with such terrified eyes. “I had an escort, but they were all killed, so I—” 

Felix, his frustration at last getting the better of him, pushes his chair back with a scraping of wood against wood and stands. “I don’t care for those odds,” he says. “I have the freedom to choose my battles, and I don’t choose this one.”

Miss Dominic stands across from him, her lips thinning as she stares at him. Her eyes have reddened, and for one horrifying moment Felix thinks she’ll burst into tears - which is the last thing he needs since making a woman cry is sure to attract attention - but then she picks up her teacup.

“You’re a villain,” she accuses him. She flings the teacup’s contents at him.

Warm liquid splashes his coat, a few droplets splattering against his cheeks. His eyes slip shut on reflex, but he doesn’t flinch, even when she all but slams the cup back on the table, spins on her heel, and stomps away.

Felix’s lips part, but before he can think of anything to say - why bother saying anything at all? - she’s left the common room. He wonders if he imagines the sound of the bell hanging over the inn’s entrance tinkling as he can barely hear the din of cheerful conversation surrounding him for his pulse pounding in his ears.

“I never fancied you a heartbreaker, Fraldarius.”

And just like that, Miss Dominic slips from his mind. His spine stiffens - who here knows his abandoned family name? - as he turns his head towards the new voice.

Felix likes to pride himself on how well he maintains his composure, the only thing that can fracture it with any regularity the anger that always lurks under the surface. But when the man who now faces him flashes a smile as ugly as the scar splitting his face, he can’t stop himself from taking a step back.

His hand finds the hilt of his sword, as much a comfort to him as it serves a warning to the man. “You,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “What are you doing here? Isn’t there a bounty on your head in the Kingdom?”

Miklan’s own hand rests almost lovingly on the head of the ax hanging from his belt. “Are you looking to collect that bounty?” he wonders.

“I have better sources of income,” Felix says.

“I’m sure,” Miklan says, his lip curling into a sneer. “Bet avoiding Daddy Fraldarius has nothing to do with it.”

His fist tightens. He fantasizes about driving it through the center of Miklan’s face and giving him a broken nose to match the wicked scar. Instead he snaps, “What do you want?”

“I just saw you from across the room and thought I’d say hello to an old friend,” Miklan replies with a shrug that even Felix can tell feigns nonchalance. “Would’ve approached sooner, but I didn’t want to interrupt your charming little rendezvous.” His gaze drifts away from Felix to the door, from which Miss Dominic left. “She was pretty,” he observes with an unpleasant smirk. “You did her a favor; she’s definitely too good for you.”

His skin crawls with discomfort, at his insinuation, at the awfully familiar lecherous look in his brown eyes. The resemblance to Sylvain is uncanny, particularly because Miklan is scum walking the earth.

Felix doesn’t have to take this, doesn’t have to entertain his false assumptions or pleasantries or even acknowledge how every muscle in his body longs to yank sword from scabbard and have done with it. Miklan stands almost a head taller than him and has far more bulk, but Felix is more than a match for him while he wears no armor.

“Aha, there it is.” Miklan taps his chin, as if deep in contemplation. “You look _just_ like your brother when he was spoiling for a fight.”

Felix’s heart skips a beat; he almost forgot he even has one.

“I hated him,” he continues. “So _virtuous_ , and _perfect_ , and _knightly_ , even if he could be as big of a bully as m—”

He shuts up the instant Felix grabs the front of his shirt. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tells him in a low, dangerous voice.

Miklan doesn’t flinch. He smiles wider and pats Felix’s hand. “You may have a point,” he agrees. “You’re not so different from me though, are you?”

“I’m—”

“What are you up to these days anyway?” he wonders, as if he’s truly curious.

Felix shoves him away, sick of looking at his face. “None of your damn business,” he grouses. He tries to step past Miklan, fed up with this conversation, fed up with the nervous energy under his skin and his stupid insinuations. His heart races, and he wishes he was on a job right now just so he’d have something - _anything_ \- else to think about, to _do_.

Miklan blocks his path. “All right then,” he says. “I’ll get to my point.” His smirk fades into something far less pleasant, though his eyes are as dark and dangerous as ever. He prods Felix in the chest - he bats his hand away, scowling - and says, “You asked if I knew that there’s a bounty on my head in the Kingdom? Well, now I wonder if you know there’s one on your head from the Empire.”

Felix blinks, caught on the wrong foot. “What?” he says, wincing at how dumb he sounds.

“Turns out even runaway noble brats fetch a hefty price if that runaway noble brat is Duke Fraldarius’ son,” Miklan informs him in a conspiratorial voice.

“I…that makes no sense,” Felix protests. His heart races and his head spins with this new information; Miklan is lying - he always lied, he knows this, he has to be lying now. “I’ve done my damnedest to stay out of any army’s way.”

“I’m just passing along the news,” he says, shrugging. “You’d best watch yourself, huh? Wouldn’t want to go the same way as big brother Glenn, after all.”

Then, without so much as a “by your leave”, Miklan turns his back to Felix in much the same way Miss Dominic did and walks away, leaving him to his troubled cloud of thoughts.

* * *

Annette’s heart beats in her bad ankle as she stumbles through the doorway of the inn’s bathhouse. The steam washes over her and coats her like a thick, cozy blanket, but it’s not nearly enough for her to relax.

 _One foot in front of the other,_ she repeats to herself like a mantra. Her heart’s an unpleasant lump in her throat, and no matter how many times she swallows she can’t banish it or her fear. The tubs ready to fill with water vanish, and in her mind she watches an arrow pierce the captain’s throat again and again, watches his horse rear on its hind legs in alarm as the awful metallic scent of blood fills the air and a hoard of men in dark clothes falls on them.

Horses stumble, men yell and groan, and blades clash against armor. Ashe tugs her away and presses her uncle’s letter into her hand and says, _Get away from here, and get to Myrrdin._

_But I can—_

_Get away, Annette!_ And he wields his bow before shoving her away from the fray and into bushes that scrape at her skin and tear at her skirts.

At a loss and with a mission of her own to see through, Annette runs. She twists her ankle somewhere between disaster and this town along Magdred Way she limps into. Goddess, they barely made it a few days from Dominic…

Not for the first time, she considers turning back. Betrothal or no, her uncle would keep her safe, might even send a rescue party after the knights meant to escort her, but the ghost of his disappointment and his words warning her what would happen if she fails haunt her. So Annette continues.

But now she no longer even has the coin purse and its contents he gave her “should the worst come to pass”. As soon as the innkeeper - already reluctant to allow her into the inn on account that she “looked worse than trouble” - learns she can’t pay for a room, she’ll turn her out to fend for herself.

Guilt that she’s using the bathhouse anyway makes Annette queasy, but after her ordeal she thinks she’s entitled to a nice bath. And it’s quiet in here, the only sound her footsteps echoing against tile and the gentle splashing of water once she settles into a filled tub.

Her carpetbag, the only belongings she fled with other than the necklace dangling from her neck and the clothes on her back and now torn thanks to a cut-purse, sits a safe distance away from her as she fights to comb the tangles and burrs from her wet hair. The hot water soothes her throbbing ankle, but unless she finds someone to help her set it, it won’t heal right.

When her mind wanders to the sellsword who so quickly rejected her, she scowls at the lump of soap in her hand. Her grip on it tightens…right before it falters. She takes a breath and sinks beneath the water’s surface, letting it wash over her and into her ears, a perfect metaphor for a pit of despair.

Annette resurfaces once her lungs start burning, coughing on the water she accidentally snorted and rubbing her itching nose. Of _course_ the sellsword didn’t listen to her; why would he when she has no money, no power, and any job she offers him can get him killed?

Still, she goes over the conversation in the common room over and over in her head; maybe if she just phrased her plea differently, maybe if she left out this information or included that, maybe if she kept better track of her belongings and never lost her coin in the first place, she could’ve hired him and they’d be on their way to Gloucester after a night of rest!

Voices echo through the bathhouse. Annette tenses, her breath sticking in her lungs as she carefully looks around. Energy pulses under her skin, ready for her to call upon and shape it into Wind.

But the voices drift past; other guests of the inn, she guesses, on their way to the stables or into town.

But she can’t relax, and her exhale wracks her body.

The inn’s soap suds poorly as she scrapes the block against her skin to wipe away the dust and sweat of travel and trauma. Her bathwater cools, and Annette imagines it running pink and red as if she scrapes away her escort’s blood. Ashe…he was so young, just a few months younger than her, and so excited with the promise of knighthood at the end of their journey…

Was it her fault? Would they have fared better if only she didn’t listen to Ashe and stayed to fight?

Annette rinses the soap away as the bath runs cold, and by the time she emerges with water streaming from her hair, she shivers.

But she has a clearer head than when she stepped into the bath. She can’t change what happened, and she can’t return home without completing the mission her uncle gave her, so she’ll have to find some other way to reach Gloucester safely.

“A merchant maybe…” Annette muses as she wipes off the water and dresses in her one spare dress (she’ll have to wash and mend the other, at some point). This town is far enough from the border it bears some semblance of stability, and merchants still pass through it regularly. She can convince one to hire her as an escort - she’s not _that_ hapless, not with magic at her fingertips - or even to cook and clean.

Well, maybe not to cook…

It’s as good a plan as any with her first one ruined. A smile tugs at her lips even as she limps out of the bathhouse and back towards the inn, bundled up in a cloak to keep from catching a chill thanks to her damp hair.

The innkeeper greets her in the entryway with her hands on her hips. “Evening, Miss,” she says.

Annette’s heart thumps, and her smile turns sheepish. “Do you, um, by chance know of a good healer in town?” she wonders. “I sprained my ankle, you see, and—”

“You had your talk with the sellsword, yes?” the innkeeper cuts her off.

“Uh, um, yes,” Annette says, though she can’t help rolling her eyes for all the good it did her.

“Then you can pay for your room now.” The innkeeper held her hand out. “It’s four gold for a night, plus one since you used the bathhouse.”

Her smile falters, and she thinks she might _actually_ be sick when she admits, “So I, um, all my coin was stolen, so maybe I can…offer up my work instead?”

Annette’s not really sure how it all happens, for one moment the innkeeper smiles at her almost indulgently, then the next she’s staring into the stables. Sleepy horses raise their heads at the commotion before nickering or munching on their dinners, and Annette freezes in the doorway, overwhelmed by the smell of hay and horses.

“W-wait!” She spins around and makes to catch up with the innkeeper, wincing when her ankle resists her efforts. “I can work, tonight and tomorrow if I need to, just—”

“I’ve had enough of your trouble, Miss,” the innkeeper says. “I don’t know what misfortune’s become of you, but the sooner you’re out of my hair, the better.”

“B-but—”

“You can have a night in the stables,” she continues, as deaf to Annette’s pleas as the sellsword, “but you’d best clear out by sunrise, you hear?”

“Uh…” Her jaw flaps uselessly, her whole body rigid with shock. Any protest she can muster dies in her throat, but she manages to nod because, well, sleeping on a bed of hay surrounded by smelly horses after a bath is better than being turned out entirely.

And she’s already penniless; what’s one more “misfortune”?

“A-all right,” she agrees to the innkeeper’s demands. “But _do_ you know of a healer? My ankle…” She trails off, as she’s already walking away, leaving her alone but for the company of sleepy horses.

“Well”—Annette drops her bag on a bale of hay in an empty stall—”you all make for better company than anyone else I’ve met here.”

She receives no reply except for a snort, which is about what she expected.

Still, her heart aches, heavy with the weight of everything that’s happened to her since she set out from Dominic. So many leagues of travel still lie between her and Gloucester, and what if the same men who slaughtered the good knights in her escort chase her across Fodlan? Maybe she can evade them traveling alone on foot, but should they catch up, she won’t be a match for a horde even with her repertoire of spells.

Darkness cloaks the stables as someone dims a lamp outside. There’s barely a hint of moonlight tonight, and it’s a small enough town few lanterns line the streets. Desperate for a hint of light to chase away the darkness settling in her chest, Annette cracks open the stables entrance.

She rubs her own tired, aching eyes before sinking into her bed - a bale of hay - for the night. Straw pokes and prods at her through her dress, and her hair, still damp from the bath, will be in a state when she wakes in the morning. A part of her wants nothing more than to lie down, clutching her bag to her chest as if it’s any substitute for her mother’s embrace or Mercie’s warm hugs, and have a good cry.

Instead, she massages her sore ankle and, in a vain effort to hear another human voice to stave off the loneliness setting in, sings, “ _Straw poking at my skin, wish my dress stopped holding it in, want to sleep but would rather shout, maybe if I_ _’m good someone will help me—”_

A cold hand closes over her mouth, and Annette cuts herself off with a strangled, muffled gasp. Something even colder, smoother, deadlier than the hand kisses the bare skin under her jaw as fear freezes her.

“I think you’re smart enough to know why I’m here,” a chilling voice says with a cackle, “but first allow me to tell you exactly how we killed every single one of your companions, and how I’m going to kill you.”

* * *

The rational part of Felix’s mind insists that Miklan was lying just to get under his skin. Besides, why bother warning him at all and not just wait for him to make the asinine mistake of setting foot in an Empire-occupied town?

Yet Felix can’t rest with his words - and his _presence_ \- weighing on him. He slips out of the inn, eager to patrol the town or scout the inn’s perimeter or do _something_ to evade his own spiraling thoughts.

Every time he tries to move away from his past, it always finds a way to catch up to him.

He makes a circuit of the inn’s grounds, just the main building with a kitchen jutting out, a stables, and a small, shed-sized bathhouse he made use of during daylight. Only one lantern stands lit in the yard, which is where an elderly guard sits on a stool, leaning heavily on his spear.

Felix snorts. How pathetic, to be slacking on the job like that; the guard ought to retire to spare the innkeeper the need to put him out. He considers tapping his shoulder or kicking over a bucket just to wake him before deciding how alert he is and how well he performs his job is none of his business.

He wanders towards the stables. This corner of the grounds are even dimmer with a high fence between the building and the town’s main avenue. His shadow stretches out before him, reaching across the yard and towards the stables’ open doorway and…

A voice drifts from within.

Curious - not least because what sort of horse thief is clumsy enough to speak aloud when anyone can hear them? - he drifts close enough to catch snatches of…singing?

A female voice, high and clean but tremulous, sings aloud, lyrics that, to Felix, are utterly nonsensical. The voice though niggles at him with familiarity, until he recognizes Miss Dominic.

So the innkeeper put her in the stables since she couldn’t pay. A strange relief washes over him; he might actually be glad she has a safe place to sleep tonight.

He lurks by the doorway, leaning against the wall with his ears peeled for her voice. It’s pretty, but there’s a quality to it that soothes his jumpiness at the same time as it tugs at his chest.

“ _Straw poking at my skin,_ _”_ Miss Dominic sings, _“wish my dress stopped holding it in, want to sleep but would rather shout, maybe if I’m good someone will help me—”_

When she’s cut off with a strangled gasp, Felix tenses anew.

Something’s wrong. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, and his hand falls to the hilt of his sword. Felix braces his other hand against the stables’ door and slides through the gap on light feet.

He sees nothing in the dark and barely hears anything over the nickers and snorts of sleeping horses. Still, he walks deeper into the stables, wary and ready to draw his blade at the drop of a pin.

Shadows shift in the back as his eyes adjust to the darkness, and another voice rises from the quiet.

“…just a boy, that one,” a man all but simpers, “yet he faced me like a—”

His sword fits easily in his hand as Felix pulls it from its scabbard. He grimaces at the scraping of metal on leather, and sure enough the shuffling of bodies greets him.

A glyph for spellcasting bursts into life and illuminates the stables, and with it Miss Dominic’s wide-eyed, pale face as she sits up and stares around.

Her gaze lands on Felix. “W-what are you—”

“So…who’s that?” he wonders instead, nodding towards the other man. He hovers over Miss Dominic, a dagger clutched in one hand, though a more serviceable sword swings from his hip. His lips curve into a malicious smirk, and there’s a spark of something…crazed in his eyes.

“Metodey,” he introduces himself with a shallow bow, though his eyes never drift from Felix’s face. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, though I daresay you’re interrupting Empire business.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” Felix says. His gaze flicks to Miss Dominic, who, far calmer than he would’ve expected, stands amid the hay, the glyph before her pulsing and casting shadows every which way. To the man - Metodey - he continues, “I can’t say I care that I am.”

His lips press together. “Funny,” he says. “I can’t say I care for your presence either.”

Metodey throws the dagger.

Felix dodges without thinking, his body already prepared to engage a foe. He raises his blade and rushes him.

Metodey’s sword meets his in a clash of sparks, a wicked gleam to it. Poisoned, he realizes; a single cut from it can kill him just as effectively (if more slowly) as it would plunged through his chest.

“Run!” he shouts at Miss Dominic.

“B-but—”

Felix unlocks their blades and steps back only for Metodey to lash out at him again. His arms rattle with the force of his blows, his blood thrilling with the thought he’s met someone that might match him, but he knows he can defeat him.

But he can keep him from marking him with that poisoned blade?

He nearly trips over Miss Dominic’s damn carpetbag as he stumbles away from Metodey, ever wary of where his blade goes. But the assassin’s crazed eyes slip past Felix, a snarl curling his lips as he tries to force himself past him.

Felix is not his foe’s true target, and the longer it takes for him to subdue the assassin, the more opportunity he’ll have to catch Miss Dominic with some dagger he hides on his person. “Unless you can make yourself useful,” he forces through gritted teeth, “then get out!”

“No…” Miss Dominic protests feebly, right as her glyph flashes. An identical one bursts into life under her feet, and dust and hay stir with an unnatural wind. The stables’ equine occupants stomp and snort in rising alarm, a more frantic one kicking at its stall door.

Felix’s hair lift as the wind intensifies while the structure creaks and dust rains from the ceiling. Still Metodey swipes at him with his sword, heedless to the wind Annette conjures.

“The stables aren’t _stable_!” he shouts.

“Right, no more magic indoors, Annette!” she cries in frustration. “But how—oh!”

Felix ducks a swipe of Metodey’s poisoned blade right as the wind dies out. Wooden bars slam, horses neigh, and the stables’ door bursts open.

Miss Dominic’s hand closes around his wrist, and before he can insist she flee, she drags him away and out of the stables.

They duck away from the doorway right as the horses, alarmed by the fight and the wind, begin their stampede. The guard on duty startles awake and reaches for a bell at his waist right as Miss Dominic’s magic glyph snuffs out.

Felix, his heart still racing from the fight and his arms trembling, sheathes his blade and grabs her arm. “Let’s go,” he says. He swallows his frustration that he’s allowed an enemy to draw breath any longer, but all he can think now is to get his target as distant from him as possible.

They run from the inn’s premises, ducking into a dark alleyway until they’re distant enough they can pause to catch their breath.

Miss Dominic leans against the wall and slides down to sit on the ground, gasping for air. Her hand clutches at her ankle, massaging it, and she whimpers.

“Are you injured?” Felix asks her before cursing himself for a fool. She walked into the inn favoring a leg, so of _course_ she’s injured.

“I’m—I’m fine,” Miss Dominic tells him, though the grimace on her face says otherwise. “I just twisted my ankle earlier, I’ll be all right.”

“How are you going to walk on that?” he wonders. He crouches beside her and, without awaiting her permission, gingerly grabs her ankle. He ignores her outraged cry and how she smacks his shoulder when he pushes up the dirtied hem of her dress.

She’s not wearing any stockings, which is a relief until he realizes it’s probably because her ankle is too swollen for them. Her skin all but burns his fingers where he grazes it, and he doesn’t miss her wince.

At the very least it needs wrapping and a salve, and Felix’s paltry medical supplies are with his other belongings at the inn.

Along with…everything else.

The last thing he needs is to return where Metodey - who is he? And why would the Empire want to kill Miss Dominic? And why does it even matter to Felix? - can find him and follow him back to Annette, but without his supplies (and his coin, for that matter) she won’t be walking anywhere.

He sets her ankle down, a sigh escaping him. “Keep your foot up,” he tells her before standing and wiping dust and straw from his sleeves. “I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

“What?” Miss Dominic bursts out. Her fingers close around his wrist before he can take a step away. “Where are you going?”

“I need to return to the inn,” he tells her. “I have some bandages with my other baggage. If that bastard finds you, you have forewarning and I suppose you have your magic too.”

“Why?” she wonders. Her brow wrinkles, but her grip on him doesn’t loosen.

“Why what?” He faces her properly, waiting for her to explain herself.

“Why are you…helping me?” she asks.

…as if he can even begin to explain _him_ self now. He rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Why does it matter? It’s not like you have much of a choice.”

Miss Dominic scowls at him, and it’s almost a relief, seeing that spark when she looked so confused, so miserable a moment ago. “I was hoping maybe you had a change of heart,” she says, “but maybe I’m wrong.”

Irritation prickles at him anew…irritation and no small amount of hurt tugging at his chest. Felix crosses his arms and says, “Whatever you say. Just stay hidden for an hour.”

He slips out of the alleyway, leaving her to fend for herself in the dark and with a bad ankle.

* * *

The next hour drags on forever.

It feels like a timeout, like when her uncle or mother would send her to her room to think of what she did wrong, and she would throw herself on her bed and wail uncontrollably before collecting herself and sulking and thinking and remembering every mistake that led her up to that point.

Annette repeats the process now, minus the wailing as she already got that out of the way in the stables. She can still feel the lingering stickiness of her tears and wipes irritably at them while sifting through her carpetbag - which she managed to grab in the chaos of the fight - and reorganizing it yet again (as it’s far too dark for her to attempt to mend the hole at the bottom).

Now she’s dirtied both her dresses, which is hardly the most important thing she has to deal with, but she’s always made herself feel better cleaning up and wearing something just as clean, and even that’s not an option anymore.

Her mind replays the instant the sellsword, Felix, appeared in the stables, more than it does when she felt the touch of a knife against her neck. His cocksure demeanor with dramatic shadows thrown over his face sticks in her head, and the instant the assassin jumped at him with his own sword drawn still makes her heart stutter in fear.

She was useless in that moment too, just as useless as when her escort was attacked, reminded that if she cast a Wind spell just a hair too powerful it would bring the flimsy wooden stables down on top of them.

Well, if the assassin approaches her now, with no ceiling to be wary of, she won’t be so helpless and caught off-guard.

…although she doubts she can stand thanks to the state of her ankle.

That thought circles her back to the sellsword. By all accounts, his helping her makes no sense after his initial refusal. Sure, he probably isn’t such a villain to ignore someone obviously in danger, but to offer to treat her ankle unprompted?

Annette glares at her hands. “He must have ulterior motives,” she decides. “Humiliation?” Not like she hasn’t been humiliated enough…

She tenses at the sound of footsteps approaching, magic swelling within her, but the shadows resolve into the sellsword. Her shoulders slump with relief. He carries a bag slung over his shoulder…and now two swords swing from his belt.

“Why do you have two swords?” Annette demands.

“In case I break or lose one and need a quick replacement,” he replies in a tone that suggests she just asked a stupid question. “I live or die by a sword.”

She scoffs, “Well, I live or die by if I can walk away from this stupid town, so…”

“Right,” the sellsword agrees. He kneels beside her again, setting his bag down next to him, and carefully lifts her foot into his lap.

His touch is gentler than Annette expects, something about it making goosebumps rise from her skin. This time she doesn’t bother complaining when he pushes the hem of her dress out of the way, but heat and indignation still flood her.

“I can do that myself,” Annette notes when he smears a foul-smelling salve onto her swelling flesh.

He just grunts in response before tucking the jar back into his bag. He unwinds a wad of linen and starts wrapping her ankle.

Pain shoots up her leg. “Ow, ow, ow,” she whines. “That’s too tight.”

“It won’t heal properly unless it’s tight,” he informs her. His eyes flick up to her face before returning to his task. “You’re awfully calm for someone who nearly had their throat slit by an Imperial assassin.”

Annette tenses as a fresh trickle of fear runs down her spine. “I, um…”

“Tell me why you need protection,” says the sellsword, “and maybe I’ll change my mind about giving you mine even if you can’t pay me yet.”

“ _Yet_?” Annette echoes. Still, she supposes she owes him an explanation…at the very least; he did save her life, though she can’t help her irritation that he expects retroactive repayment for it.

Sellswords. No wonder the Kingdom disdained them.

“I was on my way to Gloucester,” Annette explains.

“You mentioned that in the inn.” He pauses in his ministrations, and she watches as he tucks the end of the linen bandage in before setting her ankle back down. “Why is a baron’s daughter traveling all the way across Fodlan with a war brewing?”

Annette’s eyes widen. “How did you know—”

“You told me your name,” the sellsword - and maybe she ought to be calling him by his, but she can’t be bothered while she still doesn’t know what he’s after - reminds her.

“I’m actually his niece,” she admits as a dull, familiar ache fills her chest. She hugs her legs to her chest and rests her cheek against her knees. “Baron Dominic is my uncle.”

“Right, well, my question stands,” the sellsword says, “and put your legs down. Your ankle should be propped up.”

“On what?” Annette retorts. “We’re sitting in an alleyway leaning against a building, and all I have is my bag!”

He grumbles something unintelligible under his breath before shoving his own bag towards her. “Just put it up,” he says. “You won’t be able to walk on that for long tomorrow if you don’t keep it up.”

Annette sighs - why is he talking as if they’re leaving town together? - but obeys. She leans her head against the wall behind her and stares up at the sliver of black sky and its faint smattering of stars. “Well, my uncle sent me to Gloucester because…I’m to marry Count Gloucester’s heir.”

Felix leans against the wall beside her, though his legs are crossed and his arms are…also crossed. “Is that so,” he says. “A wedding with war about to break out?”

“A marriage alliance,” Annette corrects him. “Dominic’s in a weird place with the Empire nibbling at Kingdom lands, and so is Gloucester with respect to the Alliance, and neither my uncle nor the count want to get dragged in, so…”

“You’re being sent off as a consolation prize for an army.” Felix nods in understanding before snorting.

Annette frowns at him; she doesn’t understand the bitterness dripping from his voice, nor how a simple sellsword can grasp her situation so quickly. “It’s not—it’s not like that,” she protests. “House Gloucester is stronger than my house, but it’s not like we can’t defend ourselves.”

“Yet you’re traveling alone though the Empire seems to have an interest in preventing your marriage,” the sellsword observes.

She sucks in a breath, as if that’ll do anything to loosen the lump that sticks in her throat. She presses the heels of her hands against her burning eyes and mumbles, “I didn’t exactly start the journey alone, Sir Sell—Felix.”

“What happened?” He turns his head, regarding her fully since…since she met him in the inn, where he barely even looked at her at all.

Annette digs her fingernails into her palms until she feels a bite of pain. “We were attacked and”—she inhales, as if that’ll banish the scene replaying itself in her mind every time she closes her eyes—”every single knight and squire with me sworn to my house was slaughtered.”

She covers her mouth to muffle the sob that threatens to burst from her, unwilling to cry - again - in front of a stranger, even if he did save her life. But she maintains her composure after a few shaky breaths.

“I…see,” the sellsword says almost lamely. For a long heartbeat Annette wonders if that’s all he has to say, but then he adds, “So they gave their lives for you.” When she makes no reply, too stunned by his comment, he wonders, “How do you feel about that?”

Annette blinks at him, sure she’s never been more confused in her life (and she’s suffered quite a bit of confusion already tonight). “I…sad, obviously!” she retorts, flinging her arms around. “How else should I feel? I grew up knowing half of them, and they all had families to return to, and—and—and Ashe was going to be knighted, and—” She cuts herself off with a strangled gasp as she loses control all over again. Her heart races in her chest, yet somehow it feels as ponderous as a church bell and arrhythmic as a child’s first footsteps.

She lets her tears fall again, never mind the witness to them. They burn her eyes before they slide down her face, and she wipes at them furiously. “Ashe t-told me t-to leave them,” she admits, sniffing, “b-but—ugh, I st-still have—have to get to G-Gloucester, o-or it would—it would—” She gasps, her lungs aching with a need for air even as she buries her face in her hands to keep her sobs from echoing throughout the alleyway.

Annette’s chest hurts so much she wishes she could claw her heart out, just to not feel anything at all.

The sellsword - Felix, she decides, because she owes him that much just for listening to her blubber - sighs. “Here,” he says, and when she glances up, sniffing, a plain handkerchief dangles from his fingers in front of her face.

Annette accepts it then, hiccuping, she asks, “What kind of sellsword carries a handkerchief?”

He doesn’t look at her as he retorts, “Me. And don’t give it back; I don’t need a handkerchief with your phlegm all over it.”

He is an odd one, she decides, not that she’s met many sellswords. There’s just something about the way he speaks too that reminds her less of a commoner sellsword and more like the knights she grew up with.

And his accent…if she listens enough she might be able to place it.

The puzzle that is Felix gives her something else to think about and tug her from her grief. She wipes at her face and nose with the handkerchief.

“I’ve decided,” he says then.

“D-decided?” She glances at him, her eyes wide, and his meet hers for the briefest instant before he looks away again.

“I’ll escort you to your wedding all the way in Gloucester,” Felix announces without hesitation.

Annette’s jaw drops, though a wild hope seizes her. “What? Even though I can’t pay you?”

He sighs but concedes, “Yes, but let’s make it clear you do owe me for the trouble.”

Despite his put-upon tone, she can’t help the smile that stretches her lips. Her grip on her legs loosens, and she claps her hands together. “All right,” she agrees almost cheerfully, “I accept your terms. I’m sure Count Gloucester would be willing to—”

“No,” he cuts her off. He taps his chin almost thoughtfully before looking again at her. “Any payment I earn will have to be from you.”

“What? Like what?” Annette demands, indignation taking her again.

“I’ll think of something…”

She wonders if she imagines the amusement in his voice before realizing it doesn’t matter because she hates it anyway. She wants to refuse him on principle, because who _knows_ what a villain like him will ask for, but she’s desperate and knows that, with her ankle in this state, she’s in no condition to travel alone with an assassin like that… _Metodey_ on her trail.

“Fine,” she grouses, “but only so long as it’s reasonable and appropriate.”

Felix’s gaze latches onto her face, and a hint of a smirk curls his lips. “I suppose acting as your bodyguard won’t be as dull as I expected with a lunatic like that assassin on your trail.”

“I’m glad you’ll be so amused at my expense,” she grumbles.

“Amusement hardly has anything to do with it,” he argues, though Annette begs to differ.

Still, she can’t help being a little more hopeful now while they leave the town blanketed in darkness behind.


	2. maybe there we'll begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felix doesn't knock and Annette gets a little sentimental.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well i put off posting my rare pair bang fic so in the interest of attempting to establish a consistent update schedule for my other long fics i am posting a new chapter of this instead. enjoy!
> 
> **warning for an instance of sexual harassment though**

Felix doesn’t understand how Miss Dominic makes for such a cheerful traveling companion after everything that’s happened to her. She smiles easily at and about the most random things and tries to fill his preferred silences with chatter…and his lack of any meaningful response won’t deter her. She doesn’t complain about her ankle hurting her - though he has no doubt it does since as their first day wears on her pace falters, her face pales, and her limp grows more pronounced.

All in all, the woman that sobbed uncontrollably in the alleyway after telling him her story is very different from the woman ambling along beside him.

His mind still drifts back to the alleyway and the deal they struck. What was he thinking, letting someone who can’t even pay him hire him? He’s not sure, just that the thought of her falling to that assassin’s poisoned blade after his effort protecting her drops a heavy stone into his gut.

Right now she stumbles along in silence, unsteady on her feet as a yawn splits her jaws and he remembers neither of them has gotten much rest since they fled. They trek some distance from the main road too, treading over uneven, forested ground to avoid unwanted attention.

Felix shifts his bag and Miss Dominic’s - it’s heavier that it looks, and from the feeling he thinks it must contain a book or two - on his shoulders and swallows his own yawn. If the assassin assailed them now, he doubts he’s in any fit state to protect himself, much less his true target.

“We’ll walk to the next town,” he tells her. “There should be an inn there we can stop in for the night.”

Miss Dominic nods. Her eyes have a glazed quality that worries him, and she’s been quieter in the last hour. He tries to write it off as a result of hours of walking on a bad ankle and sunset approaching, but still it deepens his perpetual frown.

When she trips over a tree’s protruding root, Felix’s hand finds her elbow to steady her. “Or it might be better to camp out tonight,” he decides.

“No, it’s fine, I can still walk,” Miss Dominic protests, though she doesn’t fight him when he lets her go and drops their bags onto the ground. “There could be Demonic Beasts, and—”

“You really just want to sleep in a bed,” Felix comments. When her eyes dart from side to side and she mumbles something indecipherable under her breath, he snorts. “It’s just one night,” he says. “There are enough towns and villages along the main road between here and Gloucester.”

“Have you…ever been there before?” Miss Dominic wonders.

“A few times,” he replies, with no reason to lie, not like he would if she asks about—

He busies himself setting up his one and only tent. She tries to help him, even when he insists she’s only getting in his way and her…assistance (a generous word) places undue stress on her ankle.

“Look, if you really want to be helpful,” he grumbles when she nearly knocks over the mass of fabric _again_ , “dig us some rations from my bag.”

She agrees more cheerfully than he dared expect, sitting down - to his relief - against a tree and dragging his bag towards her. Maybe, he muses, she just needs something to keep her hands busy.

Her humming bursts through the exhausted fog of his thoughts, almost blanketing them. His eyes slip shut and his shoulders droop, and he can fall asleep right there, crouched while driving stakes into the hard earth, if Miss Dominic doesn’t exclaim, “Oh, what’s this?”

Felix jerks his head around to find Miss Dominic, his bag between her knees and…a black iron spur between her fingers.

“That’s mine.” He launches himself across their makeshift campsite to snatch it from her hand, his heart racing as he runs a fingertip along its ridged circumference before tucking it safely into a coat pocket.

“Well, obviously,” Miss Dominic agrees. “It was in your bag.”

“It’s a spur,” he tells her, hoping she’ll drop it.

“Seems an odd thing for you to have,” she notes, her head tilting to the side like a curious kitten. But then she smiles sheepishly, her cheeks coloring, and wonders, “Wait, was one of the horses I let go at the inn yours?”

“No,” he says. He returns his attention to raising the tent and doesn’t bother following up with more explanation.

By the time they - or, well, Felix - have set up some semblance of camp, the sun lies low enough that shadows stretch from the trees and plunge the whole forest into darkness. He cautions Miss Dominic against lighting a fire no matter how much she complains about needing light to mend the tear in her bag, the better to avoid detection by the assassin pursuing them, and even says, “If the Empire’s sent one man after you, there’s a good chance there are more.”

“I…suppose,” Miss Dominic agrees, sounding oddly subdued after being downright cheerful for much of the day. She sags sideways against her tree, her eyes drooping shut, but before Felix can grouse that he refuses to carry her into the tent, she raises her head and wonders, “What sorts of jobs do you usually do?”

“Anything that interests me,” he says. He raises his water skin to his lips and, since they’ve yet to come across another stream, drinks just enough to soothe his cracked throat.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” she whines. She fiddles with a silver pendant dangling from her neck, shivering. “If you think being a bodyguard is boring—”

“It isn’t always,” Felix admits. “I told you being yours might prove interesting.”

“I’m so pleased to provide you that entertainment,” Miss Dominic snipes. “Also, your jerky is terrible; what’s it cured with?”

He tears at his own piece, the meat tough between his teeth. “Almyran spices. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it.”

“And starve until we reach a town with real food?” She shudders and munches downright agreeably on her strip of jerky. “No, thank you.”

Felix half-expected more complaints or demands, but Miss Dominic’s hardly the most bothersome client he’s had, especially for a noble. The worst he can say of her so far is that her help might be more trouble than it’s worth.

It’s dark by the time Miss Dominic crawls into the tent. He lingers outside, conscious then of how small it really is since he never has guests, and of how it would be so easy for the assassin or anyone to sneak up on them while they sleep. His hand finds the hilt of his favored sword as he scans their dark, shadowed surroundings.

Tree branches creak and underbrush rustles with a nighttime breeze and the motion of small nocturnal animals. To his ears though every sound might be an assassin with a sword coated in deadly poison or a Demonic Beast thirsting for human blood or…the fulfillment of the promise behind Miklan’s warning.

Felix peeks into the tent, lifting the flap and finding Miss Dominic’s prone silhouette curled up under a thin blanket. He can only just make out the shadow of her hand clutching her pendant, and her shoulder rises and falls with the deep, steady breathing that’s louder than even the wind inside this tiny tent. He fought his own weariness half the last night and all day, so now the narrow space left beside her in the tent entices him.

He imagines her body is warmer than the night, warm enough to help chase away the exhaustion and the ache that always lingers in his chest.

Felix drops the flap - drops that thought from his mind - and leans against a nearby tree with the tent’s entrance in view. He unsheathes his sword and rests it across his lap, hand on the hilt and ears attuned to the forest’s sounds. If he falls asleep, he’ll wake at the slightest hint of danger.

* * *

When Annette wakes, her eyelids refuse to open. She hugs something - soft with a hard edge? - against her chest and winces at a sour taste in her mouth before she rolls onto her back and pries her eyelids apart.

Canvas thin enough sunlight streams through greets her. Confusion clouds her sleepy mind, but she has the keen fear that she overslept.

Annette bolts upright, her heart skipping a beat, and tosses aside her bag - the hard edge belongs to her journal or to _The Logic of Reason_ \- and crawls towards the tent’s entrance. Her legs tangle in her dress and the thin blanket, and she doesn’t even reach the flap for her stumbling before it lifts and a man pokes his head through.

She shrieks and lobs her bag at him.

The intruder catches it with an _oof_ , scowling at her, which is when she finally recognizes the sellsword’s dark hair and narrowed amber eyes.

“Oh,” she says, her face warming with embarrassment. “I thought you were an, um…not you.”

Felix sets her bag down. “Did you have to scream?”

“I didn’t _scream_ ,” Annette argues, though she knows there’s no real reason to. “And really, you ought to knock. What if I wasn’t decent?”

He gives her a once-over, an unimpressed frown - which is somehow more insulting than his scan - twisting his lips. “You slept in your clothes,” he observes.

“Well, yes,” she agrees, clearing her throat as if that’ll dispel some of the awkwardness creeping up her spine, “because I was too tired to undress and I was under the impression I’d be sharing a tent with a stranger.”

Felix’s brow furrows, and he looks almost _worried_. “I’m a stranger?”

Annette crosses her arms and says, “Close enough. Where did you sleep anyway?” Her eyes narrow as she looks _him_ over, noting his wrinkled clothes and a flash of pale skin where his shirt’s come untucked and… “You have a leaf on your shoulder.”

He brushes it off without looking at it. “I slept outside,” he says, as if that answers her question to any degree of satisfaction. “Your ankle?”

She jumps, his prompt startling, then peels back her tangle of blanket and dress to find her foot. She winces, bracing herself against any pain, and prods it with a fingertip.

It doesn’t hurt. The linen bandage wrapped tight must’ve left it numb.

“Better,” she admits. “You’re not a terrible nurse.”

He grunts but says, “We should change the wrapping before we set out.”

“It’s fine,” Annette protests. She rearranges her limbs and tries to crawl towards the tent’s entrance, but he still stands there, in the way.

She scowls at him. “Shouldn’t we be going?” she wonders. “Isn’t this why you just came to check on me or…whatever it is you thought you were doing when you entered without knocking?”

“What would I have even knocked on?” Felix retorts. “Where’s the door?”

“Then you could’ve announced yourself!” Annette says. “You’re so rude! Why can’t I have found another sellsword to hire?”

“Sellswords aren’t known for their manners,” he responds before grabbing her arm and dragging her back down. “The quicker you let me look at your ankle, the sooner we can be on our way again.”

She relents when he fixes her with a steely gaze. She plops on her backside, arms crossed over her chest, and rolls her eyes as she settles her foot beside him. “Fine.”

Felix doesn’t so much as bat an eye at her while he retrieves his roll of bandages and jar of salve. Idly Annette wonders how often he’s had to use it on himself - sellsword isn’t exactly a safe profession, least of all with a war brewing, and he works alone rather than with a partner or a band - but finds herself grateful he bothers to help her.

“Maybe we can find a priest while we’re in town,” Annette floats. Her ankle isn’t as bad as before after a night’s rest - even if every other part of her body aches from a night spent on the ground - but the swelling still lingers.

“It’s an option,” Felix agrees. “At least a priest won’t charge or ask too many questions.”

She hums and studies his face for lack of anything better to do, and since she didn’t get the chance last time he wrapped her ankle with nighttime cloaking that awful alley. His lips are a flat line, neither smiling nor really frowning, flyaway hairs frame his cheeks, and the faintest scar parts one of his dark eyebrows. His hand is warm on her heel when he lifts her foot to wrap her ankle again, and Annette wonders what it would take for him to…smile.

Not smirk - she’s seen a fair number of those - but _smile_.

Probably a lot. Right now, with dark thumbprint-sized smudges under his eyes, he barely looks capable of making an expression that isn’t unpleasant.

“You said you slept outside,” Annette ventures, “but did you sleep at all?”

Felix sets her foot down and slides away from her. “I slept at least a few hours,” he says. “We’re not far from the next town; we’ll have a better chance at resting then.”

“Um…” She fiddles with the pendant dangling from her neck. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” says Felix in a tone that suggests the conversation is over.

His handiwork with her ankle, at least, didn’t diminish. Annette smiles when she stands with little difficulty, and she only has to take care not to rest all her weight on her bad leg while walking. She may even manage all of the day’s walk without leaning on Felix for any of it!

They pack up camp - she knocks over the tent all at once in her enthusiasm to help, and Felix grumbles that she could’ve at least waited until he stood _outside_ it - and set off munching on more of his rations.

“I’ll have to resupply in the next town,” he says with a sigh. “One more mouth to feed…”

“Can’t we get something a little sweeter than this jerky when we do?” Annette wonders. The water skin they share between them is almost empty, and they’ve yet to come across another stream where they can refill it.

“Whoever has the coin buys the rations,” Felix says with the barest hint of a smirk.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re lucky I can’t pay you then,” she grumbles. “If I could pay you, I _would_ be telling you what to buy, and where we should sleep, and—”

“Are you sure you can’t pay me?” he asks then.

His tone and his amber gaze - sharp, almost discerning - send a shiver up her spine. “What?” Her jaw drops, and she feels like she’s been caught in a lie or some other mischief, like she sneaked into her uncle’s study and he found her rummaging through his desk drawers (again). “What are you talking about?”

Felix’s eyes flick down to her collar before he taps his own neck. “You’re wearing a necklace,” he observes. “It’s silver and, I’m hardly a jeweler or a silversmith, but it looks valuable.”

Relief washes over Annette, chasing away every trace of retroactive - and unnecessary - guilt, but a tightness in her chest quickly takes its place. Her fingers close around the pendant, the silver warmed by where it bounces against her breastbone, the figurine ridged and bumpy in her grip.

The day feels colder too, though the sun shines brightly through green tree branches, though it’s still late in summer before autumn chills the southern reaches of the Kingdom.

“What about my necklace?” she asks Felix, shooting him a suspicious gaze. “Is the deal we struck not enough, or do I need to make sure you don’t know where it is while I sleep?”

“If I wanted to steal it,” he points out in an infuriatingly reasonable voice, “why would I bother asking you about it now?”

Annette opens her mouth to answer…only to realize that he has a point. Still, she retorts mutinously, “You did say you like a challenge…”

To her surprise, Felix _laughs_ , a short, quick sound that shocks her so much her heart skips a beat and she nearly loses her already feeble footing. A yelp escapes her, her arms swinging wildly until he grabs her elbow to steady her.

“Is it your sprained ankle that makes you so clumsy?” he says. “Or are you always like that?”

“Yes!” she retorts, high and indignant with her face hotter than the summer sun. “I mean, no! I mean—ugh!” She flings her arms to the side before crossing them. “Are you always this evil, or am I just special?”

“I’m not a nice person, no,” Felix concedes, nodding, “but I’d hardly say I’m _evil_.”

Annette snorts and doesn’t bother retorting. Instead she tries to focus on her surroundings, about how, if not for the memory of a knife at her throat and the screams of dying men and her own dully throbbing ankle, this might seem one of her usual pleasant morning walks.

“Why not pay me with the necklace?” Felix presses.

She glances at him, surprised by how…insistent he is on this. “What, do you not like having me in your debt?” Annette wonders.

“Do you like _being_ in my debt?” he fires back.

“Hardly,” she denies, rolling her eyes. “The goddess only knows what awful favor or payment a villain like you has in mind.”

“Maybe I’ll ask for your necklace,” he suggests almost idly. “I’m sure it can fetch a decent price if I sell it to a jeweler in Derdriu, and Derdriu is just a little further from Gl—”

“You can’t have my necklace,” Annette says quickly. Frustration makes her heart pound against her ribs, and she shoots a glare at Felix.

“Then I won’t ask for it,” he says, just as quickly. He shrugs, his gaze flicking to her before drifting to the necklace then back on the path ahead of them again.

He seems content to let them slip back into silence, but this one isn’t as easy. Annette’s spine stiffens, and her ears burn, and she’s really feeling the dirt and sweat caked on her skin and staining her dress. And her physical discomforts can’t hold a candle to the heaviness in her chest that refuses to diminish even with every step she takes away from Dominic and the sites of both ambushes and every step they take closer to her destination.

To marry a man she’s never met and knows next to nothing about. (What if he doesn’t like her and refuses to marry her and the arrangement between his father and her uncle doesn’t go through?)

Maybe that’s why she sighs and, with her hand tightening on the pendant of the Crest of Seiros, admits, “It belonged to my father.” She can feel the heat of Felix’s gaze, curious rather than judgmental (she hopes), on her. “It’s the only thing I have of his, so…I wear it in case I have the chance to see him again.”

From the corner of her eye she spies him tucking his hand into a coat pocket. “I see,” he says. His eyebrows draw together, and for a long heartbeat Annette thinks - worries, _hopes_ \- he’ll say more.

He falls silent, but this time the quiet shifts. To her it feels almost companionable.

As they draw closer to town, noise drifts through the trees and towards them from the main road. Horses’ hooves thunder along, wagon wheels creak, and travelers shout at one another. Annette even catches the clanking of armor when they dare to trek a little closer, and in the midst of the farmhands returning from working the fields march soldiers bearing shields painted with the griffin of the Kingdom.

Felix sucks in a breath. “I didn’t realize they would be gathering here,” he mutters to her.

“What’s the problem?” Annette wonders. “It’s the Empire that’s trying to give us trouble.”

He shakes his head but, after a low sigh, agrees, “You’re right. You need a priest to heal your ankle if nothing else.”

“What about resupplying?” she presses.

“If it had come to it,” Felix says, “I could’ve gone hunting.”

“You don’t carry a bow,” Annette observes, though she still looks him up and down in case she missed something obvious.

“Which is why we do need to resupply in town,” he says. He grabs her by the wrist and tugs her towards the road. “It’s busy enough we can blend in, and that assassin’s already proved he’d rather not attack you while witnesses are around.”

“You don’t have to manhandle me,” she complains, but she follows him without protest.

She’s winded by the time they crest the low hill and emerge onto the busy roadway. Her lungs ache for air, and, though it’s still at least two hours from sunset, her heart beats in her head with tiredness. Her whole body feels stiff after a night sleeping on the ground, and she longs to collapse on a warm, soft bed in the privacy of a rented room at an inn.

But first they have to make it into town.

Annette can’t fail to notice how much jumpier Felix is now that they walk out in the open. He steps close to her, his stance what she can only call “protective”, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword and his eyes dart every which way as if he expects an attack to come from anywhere.

“This was your idea,” she mutters. “Shouldn’t you at least try to relax? Otherwise”—a smirk curls her lips—”one of these valiant Kingdom knights might think you kidnapped me.”

Felix shoots her a glare hot and irritated enough it would kill a lesser person, but her words have the desired effect and he allows a few inches between them. “There,” he grouses. “Happy?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Annette says. She waves at a farmer driving a wagon covered with a sagging tarp going in the opposite direction before singing under her breath, _“Walking into town, avoiding the clown. Going to find an inn, maybe there we’ll begin.”_

“Who’s the clown?” Felix wonders.

Her face warms, and she spins her head around to find him watching her with an eyebrow raised. “It’s you,” she says without thinking, because he caught her mid-composition.

He frowns. “What did I do?”

“What didn’t you do?”

“Uh…try to kill you?” he suggests.

“The day is young,” she replies with a strained smile. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop, Felix. It’s rude, and—”

“You’re the one singing out in the open where anyone can hear you,” he points out far too reasonably for her liking.

Annette’s cheeks grow impossibly hotter. She claps her hands over them - she tries to ignore the passerby that shoots her a curious glance - when fear burbles in her gut. “Well, well, um, you’d better not tell my—my betrothed about it when we reach Gloucester,” she hisses. “If you tell him, he might call off the wedding, and then I’ll fail, and then—”

“All right, I won’t tell,” Felix promises with an exasperated sigh. He rakes a hand over his face before adding, “And I’ve no intention of chatting with your betrothed, and certainly not for long enough to tell him. I have no score to settle with him.”

Score? Annette frowns at him; his diction just…niggles at her in some way, like she should recognize it. He’s definitely from the Kingdom, but she can’t narrow his accent down from there. Fhirdiad, perhaps? Not that she remembers how a Fhirdiad accent sounds, for even her mother’s - a native of Fhirdiad - faded in the years since they left the city to live in Dominic.

The town sprawls before them. It’s not a fortress by any stretch of the imagination - not like Arianrhod, through which her escort passed on the initial journey south from Dominic - but low walls still protect it enough to funnel travelers through a single gate. Annette and Felix file into the queue while knights sworn to a local lord wave each group in.

“They’re sloppy,” Felix muses in a low voice as they step closer to the town’s gates. His knuckles turn white with how tightly he holds onto his sword. “Any one of these men or women could be a spy from the Empire, and they just let them in without checking for documents or asking questions or anything.”

Annette glances around, at the soldiers mingling with civilians waiting their own turn. “It looks like they’re being fortified,” she says, “and besides, are _you_ prepared to present documents or answer questions?”

Felix’s ears turn pink, and she’s so shocked by it her jaw drops. “That’s, um—” He clears his throat. “I am if need be.”

“Truthfully?” she prods, a smile poking at her lips, but it fades when he shoots her yet another of his withering glares.

She sighs, but by then they’ve reached the guards at the gates. The one who lays eyes on them looks bored, leaning his weight onto his lance and with with those eyes glazed over. “Business in town?” he asks.

“Traveling through,” Felix says simply, though Annette doesn’t miss how he fidgets. (Is it really just the thought of the assassin on his mind?)

“How long will you be staying?” The guard examines his bitten fingernails.

“We’re leaving tomorrow.”

He looks up. “Can you pay the custom?”

“The…custom?” Felix blinks. “What custom? Since when is there a custom just to enter a town?”

The guard rolls his eyes and sighs, and Annette wonders how often he’s had this conversation. “It’s a new order from Count Rowe, Sir,” he explains, “for the defense of this town in case of war.”

“For the—” Felix growls in frustration. “Fine, how much is it?”

He looks them over, gaze lingering on Annette before it returns to Felix. “No horses or carts, no goods…one gold apiece.”

Felix sighs but spins his bag around to root through it. Annette watches him with guilt biting at her; maybe if she could’ve paid him he wouldn’t feel it so much…

And what if every Kingdom town along their journey had this? How long until the assassin tracked them just based on sight?

Although, perhaps fortified towns would be their saving grace from him, and they would be all right so long as they made it safely to one every night! Yes, to Annette that made perfect sense, so she’s in far better spirits as they pass into town than when they first approached it.

Within the town’s low walls, the crowd disperses, everyone going about their own business. As long as they waited in line to enter, it’s nearer to sunset, so shadows stretch longer and many (Annette assumes) rush to their homes for supper and sleep.

Felix still grumbles as he rights his bag against his back. Annette’s own bounces against his hip, and not for the first time she says, “I can carry my own bag, you know.”

Not for the first time, he replies, “We move faster when you’re not burdened by it.” His hand closes around her elbow, and he drags her along to hasten their pace. “Let’s hurry up and find a church before the priest shuts the doors.”

Annette winces when pain travels up her leg with every other step. “You know,” she says, “we haven’t seen the— _him_ in a few days. You don’t suppose we’ve lost him, do you?”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Felix says. “While we’re in towns, we’ll have to stay on our guard until I kill him.”

A shiver crawls up her spine at how nonchalantly he makes such a pronouncement. “You sound…awfully confident you can manage that,” Annette observes. “Are you sure you’ll—”

He halts so abruptly she runs headlong into his back - or, more accurately, their bags slung across his back. “Ow,” she grumbles, rubbing her forehead where it collided with her journal and stumbling away from him. “Felix, why did you—”

“We’re being followed.” His eyes dart around, his hand never drifting from his sword.

Annette steps a little closer to him while tension stiffens her spine. She forces herself to breathe and tries to swallow the fear suddenly chilling her blood as she scans their surroundings. But all she sees are the people of the town closing their shops and calling greetings and bidding goodbyes to each other.

“How can you tell?” she wonders, glancing over her shoulder behind them.

“I don’t know for sure,” he admits, “but it’s enough.”

“What do you—for the goddess’ sake!” Annette exclaims when Felix yet again yanks her after him. “Shouldn’t we be trying to act natural?”

“We need to lose him,” he says as he ducks into an alley. “If he finds where we’re sleeping, he can try and kill you like last time.”

A shudder wracks her. She touches her neck, remembering the kiss of a knife and the whisper of a promise.

_“The boy fought bravely, but I smiled as my blade tore him open.”_

Annette shuts her eyes against the memory of Ashe’s frantic face, shuts it against the fresh wave of grief threatening to overwhelm her. She needs to survive, she reminds herself, and make it to Gloucester and marry and do what her uncle and his knights tasked her with, or what would it all have been for?

“Dammit.” Felix’s hiss jerks her away from a forest glade and away from a dark stables and into the narrow alleyway. His grip on her falters, and it’s only then she notices him recoil, clutching at his right shoulder.

“Felix?” Fear seizes her when her eyes catch on the arrow protruding between his fingers. “Wait, don’t take it out! I read once if you do—”

“I know!” he cuts her off. “This is just—” Footsteps echo down the alley the way they came.

Annette sucks in a breath. Three silhouettes approach them, and all three are armed.

“Run,” Felix tells her in a low, pained voice.

“But my magic—”

“Just run!”

She’s barely taken two steps before he draws his sword with a scraping of metal against leather. The blade almost gleams in the dark, and he raises it as he half-turns towards their pursuers.

Fire jolts up her leg from her ankle as she tries to run, and her heart pounds in her throat. Her breath comes in sharp gasps, and she’s sure she’ll trip over a paving stone and fall and scrape her knees only for the assassin to bury a knife into her back up to the hilt and—

Hooves clop ahead, and a flare bursts into life, so bright she flinches and falters before a ball of fire collides with the ground at her feet. Annette recoils from the sharp heat, but her body reacts ahead of her mind.

Magic, always just within reach, swells in her chest. An array of glyphs light the alley before her, an identical one beneath her feet; a breeze picks up, charging into a more powerful wind, and without affirming her target she channels it ahead.

Flame disperses her wind, blowing sparks towards her and washing the alley with heat. Annette coughs as dust burns her eyes and tickles her throat but doesn’t falter in summoning another gale.

She stiffens at the sound of footsteps behind her, only for Felix to appear at her side, sword in hand and a grimace on his face.

“We’re surrounded,” he says in a low voice. “It was a trap, and I walked us right into it.”

Annette knows shame when she hears it, knows it as well as she knows herself; but she doesn’t know Felix, not really, so no matter how much her impulse is to comfort him, she knocks her elbow into his (uninjured) arm and insists, “We’re not caught yet. We can fight them off.”

“She has fire,” a low voice cuts in. When the smoke and dust from clashing spells clear, a man wearing the plate armor of a knight on duty with fiery red hair and a scar cutting diagonally across his face emerges. “But about this,” he continues with a nod at a handful of other men wielding different weapons, “she’s wrong.”

Felix stiffens beside her. “Miklan.”

The man with the scar - Miklan - approaches, an ax balanced on his shoulder and a man with a crossbow pointed at Felix just behind him. “Well met, Felix,” he says, “though I expected you in town sooner.” His gaze lands on Annette, and it takes all her willpower not to shudder under those dead brown eyes. “I guess you and your woman patched things up after all.”

Felix slides ever so slightly between her and Miklan, but Annette begins to think she’s not the one in the most danger here. “What do you want?” he demands.

“Your head,” Miklan says easily. “You, alive, is worth more than enough to the Empire for me to split evenly among my gang, so if you’d oblige and come with us, I’ll make sure my men don’t have their way with your girl.”

Annette’s face flushes, anger and fear filling her in equal measure. Her hands curl into fists, and she doesn’t have to think before weaving glyphs for a spell. The magic is at her fingertips without her summoning it, and her Crest flares into life.

The wind bursts from her, lifting her hair with it before charging Miklan. A snarl twists his lips as he tries to dodge, but his armor slows him down and Annette’s spell lands true.

It hits him square in the chest and face, knocking him a few paces backwards and off his feet, and it’s enough to unleash chaos.

Felix strikes out against another swordsman with a battle cry, apparently heedless of the arrow in his arm. Annette blows another arrow away from him right as he kicks at the swordsman.

For one heartbeat, Annette dares to think they might escape this, they can give Miklan the slip - and she can wonder how Felix knows him in peace - and flee to seek sanctuary and care at the town’s church.

But Felix falters, his blows growing weaker as two days of travel catches up to him, and Annette fears unleashing too strong of spells in such close quarters lest they backfire on them. An arrow grazes her side, and she steps back with fire shooting through her flesh until her back collides with a wall. Miklan himself disarms Felix, knocking his sword from his hands before swinging his ax up in a wicked uppercut.

“Felix!” Annette cries out in alarm.

He sidesteps the blow, only for it to come back down on his shoulder.

Felix gasps in pain, his eyes glazed and shining when they flick to her, but before he falls Miklan seizes him by the hair just to drag him back up.

“Listen here, you spoiled brat,” he seethes, “the bounty is for you alive because your Crest actually makes you worth something, but the order never specified for you to be in one piece.”

Felix reaches for his spare sword but earns a knee to the gut for his trouble. He doubles over, groaning, when Miklan drops him, but despite the blood oozing from his shoulder his eyes are full of venom.

Annette weaves another spell…only for _something_ to slam shut inside her, trapping her reservoir of magic behind an insurmountable barrier. She closes her eyes, trying to burst through it, but it feels as inescapable as this alleyway.

When she opens her eyes, she sees the glow of the enemy mage’s glyphs. From behind it he offers her a shadow of a smirk, but before she can so much as launch herself at him to forcefully terminate his Silence spell - she _can_ throw a good right hook - someone grabs her arms and wrestles them behind her back.

Annette struggles anyway, snapping, “Let me go!” She kicks out at her assailant, only to lose her balance when her bad leg crumbles under the pressure.

Miklan approaches her now, and she gains a profound satisfaction from how her well-placed Wind spell left his nose bruised and dripping blood. She glares up him - quite high; he’s taller than Felix - but he only chuckles and taps her chin. “Are you trying to glare me to death like that one over there?” He nods towards Felix.

Felix…he can barely resist the three men forcing a bag over his head and tying his wrists behind his back. “Take his other sword and search him for hidden knives,” one of the men says while another picks up his first sword and their bags, dropped sometime during the ambush.

Annette’s chest tightens at the sight, but with her magic out of reach and her own wrists caught up in rope pinching her skin, she’s rendered useless. “What are you even after?” she shouts at Miklan.

“Money and maybe a little revenge,” he says, to her surprise…not that his answer tells her much. “My gang only cares about the money, from which I’m more than happy to share, but the revenge…” Annette flinches when he caresses her cheek, revulsion filling her. “You have a Crest too. Interesting.”

Her heart races anew, even faster than before. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“The Empire might find value in you too,” Miklan says. “Reason to keep you alive until we can deliver you to the border, but it’s not a guarantee, so make sure you and he”—he jerks his head towards Felix—”are on your best behavior.”

Tied up and helpless, Annette’s not sure she has much choice. Even now, taking one look at Felix, she wonders how he can survive even all the way to the Empire’s border. At least that first arrow still sticks out of his arm, and the ax wound oozes blood slower than she thought it would, but then two men drag him roughly to the end of the alley.

“Miklan!” he snaps, his voice muffled in the sack covering his head. “Bastard!” He jerks against his captors before gasping in pain.

“Watch your language in the presence of a noble lady,” Miklan mocks. He picks up Annette himself, and before she can fight him off (however feebly) he props her over his shoulder just like Felix carried their bags.

His hand’s placement though…Annette might actually be sick.

“If you hurt her—”

“We’ll be perfect gentlemen with her,” Miklan promises, as if his hand on her backside bears any degree of _gentlemanliness_. “In fact, your lordship, I’d worry more about how you conduct yourself and how _that_ affects her.”

Annette sees nothing but the swaying of the ground beneath Miklan’s feet, feels nothing but her blood rushing to her head and the rumbling of his threats through his back, and hears nothing but her heartbeat pounding away in her ear. Fear chills her to her core, but beneath all that is anger that only intensifies when Miklan tosses her into the back of a wagon beside Felix.

“Set them up,” he orders his men. “We need to leave town before curfew.”

The mage - Annette thinks she might hate him more than Miklan - and one of the bowmen approach. The bowman carries a sack identical to the one on Felix’s head, but before he can force it over hers, the mage holds a hand up. “Wait,” he says. “Is that…” His gaze drifts to her chest, but Annette can’t feel too humiliated by it when his fingers close around her pendant.

“Silver,” he says, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. He smiles a wicked, blood-chilling smile and adds, “Since the boss won’t let us have you, I’ll take this instead.”

The fragile chain snaps against her neck when he yanks the pendant. Annette protests, “Hey, that’s my necklace, that was my—”

A sack descends over her head and plunges her into a musty, stuffy darkness.

For once Annette’s grateful for the dark, as it hides her tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope everyone's enjoying the other felannie mini bang fics too! would love to see what you think about this one so far


	3. at least the stars look pretty tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luck is not on their side until it is. Good thing Felix isn't the only one with a lunatic that kind of wants him dead...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miklan alone probably deserves a trigger warning huh. But believe it or not i made zero progress on this fic (which was already an old idea by the time i started working on it for the mini bang) until i added him as an extra villain, because all my long fics apparently need at least two antagonists for maximum fun (aka to work out any plot kinks and snarls). 
> 
> Regardless, hope you enjoy the chapter!

The pain in his shoulder that throbs with every jostle of the wagon and creak of its wheels is nothing to the shame of failure. His heart hangs low in his stomach - unless that’s just nausea from the wagon’s motion - while he keeps repeating the scene in the alleyway in his mind and trying to find how he could’ve prevented his absolutely colossal failure.

Felix’s first mistake was ducking into the alley, and after that it was a slew of other errors. If he’d been a mite faster or a touch stronger—or, no, his first mistake was offering his services to Miss Dominic, otherwise she wouldn’t be right here beside him as entrenched in his own failures as he is.

Her silence is almost louder than the hollering of Miklan and his gang beyond the covered wagon. He might miss her near-constant chatter, and the memory of her voice cannot compare to the true thing.

His own voice berates him, along with others, voices he wishes he fears forgetting as much as he longs to. The boar insists he would’ve - could’ve - killed everyone in his path, Sylvain warns him he should’ve run the instant he saw Miklan, his father scolds him for thinking of his own survival, and Glenn—

The wagon careens over a bump in the road. Felix’s trussed up body bounces, and when his head collides with the side a gasp tears out of his lungs. He lands hard at the bottom and curls in on himself, his whole right side aflame, muffling a pathetic whimper behind his lips.

It’s growing harder to breathe with the sack forced over his head. He coughs on thin air, his lungs heaving, and tries to push it off using the wagon’s wall. Useless, pathetic, feeble…if only they’d missed the knife he kept in his coat when they searched him and divvied up the gold in his bag.

(At least the bastards left Glenn’s spur in his pocket, even if they dismissed it as a worthless piece of junk.)

Felix doesn’t know how long they’ve been traveling, only that they left the poorly fortified town soon after their capture. The guards, pathetic even on duty, never even bothered to check the contents of the wagon. Miklan had it too easy, and Felix resented him for that as much as he hated him for anything else.

A voice disrupts the deep, dusty, dreary dark. “Felix?” Miss Dominic whispers. Her voice drifts from the end of the wagon, her head, he thinks, level with his. “Are you—no, of course you’re not all right, so how’s your—no, that’s a stupid question too! What…”

Felix closes his eyes, though it doesn’t enhance the darkness in his stupid sack, and sighs. “I can hear every word you’re saying,” he tells her, even if he’s not sure it’s what he means to say. Her voice is a welcome respite from this awful situation, and he can’t muster much exasperation.

“Well, um, then…how _is_ your shoulder?”

“Hurts,” he says simply. “I think…I don’t think it’s bleeding anymore”—or he’s bled so much any other blood gluing his sleeve to his skin won’t make a difference—”and they left in the arrow.”

“If we don’t get it out and heal it,” Miss Dominic says, “the wound could get infected.”

Felix snorts and adjusts so he’s not putting so much weight on his right side. “I don’t think these bastards care about that,” he says. “How’s your ankle?”

“But if they want you alive—”

“Alive doesn’t mean unharmed, as you can see.” He closes his eyes, this time keeping them shut; he can almost imagine he sits in a carriage rather than in the back of a wagon and, like a child, letting the motion lull him to sleep. Small enough his father would carry him to his bed…if Glenn didn’t poke his cheek to wake him first.

He tears himself from the memory right as Miss Dominic offers, “My ankle is, well, it could be worse?”

“What does that mean?” he demands.

“It means I don’t care so much about it anymore,” she complains. “I’m so tired of my ankle being the thing that messes me up, and now I have to deal with being Silenced!”

“You…what?” A chill crawls down his spine, and he struggles to sit up, ignoring the heat in his flesh.

“Do you really think I would’ve let them take us so easily if I hadn’t been?” Miss Dominic practically sobs. Felix can imagine her curling up, her eyes glassy with tears under her own sack. “Maybe if I’d paid more attention I could’ve stopped h-him, b-but I c-can’t reach—can’t reach any magic. I’ve been c-cut off!”

Felix strains to reach her on reflex, but it’s useless with his wrists tied behind his back. “It’s not your—not your fault,” he argues feebly. “You can’t have taken them alone anyway; they’re more organized than they look.” It sickens him, how easily he allowed them to fall into a trap - all because he just assumed, even after Miklan _personally_ warned him, the one that followed them was Metodey.

“I could’ve just incapacitated one,” she protests, sniffing. Her ensuing laughter startles him, even as she adds, “At least I gave Miklan a bloody nose.”

A smile pushes at Felix’s lips at her words, somehow amused despite everything. “You what? Did you really?”

“I did!” Miss Dominic says almost cheerfully. “One good Wind spell to the face did it, but…”

“What?” he prompts when she falls silent. For once, he doesn’t want to return to the silence; it feels too unnatural, too unlike her.

“The mage took my necklace,” she admits. “I don’t—is it too much to hope I can take it back?”

Felix sighs and slumps in place, feeling on the edge of a deep pit of despair. “Right now, it’s almost too much to hope we can escape.” It calls his name; he’s never drawn so close to the edge before…

“Don’t say that,” Miss Dominic hisses. “We can! We _have_ to, otherwise I’ll never make it to Gloucester.”

“You’re still worried about that?” he notes, scoffing. “All of this”—he jerks his head up, as if she’ll be able to see the gesture—”and you’re still so intent on marrying your noble groom?”

“Yes, of course,” she retorts. “How else am I supposed to protect my family and lands from the Empire?”

“You’re a mage yourself,” Felix says, “and, unless I miss my guess, a strong one too. It would be a waste for your family to send you to marry into another house that you don’t even know will treat you well.”

“Oh, and what about you?” Miss Dominic shoots back. “Unless _I_ miss _my_ guess, you’re a noble with a Crest! Why aren’t you protecting your family and lands too, you hypocrite?”

His heart skips a beat at her insult and accusation, trapping him. And stuck in this wagon, on the way south, further and further from their intended destination, there’s nowhere he can run.

The wagon jerks to a halt, sparing him the opportunity to answer. Felix slides to the back, stopping pressed up against…Miss Dominic. Her body lines up with his, and he feels the harshness of her breathing at his ear.

It would be embarrassing, how his face warms - _somehow_ , still! - under the sack if a rustling of fabric didn’t greet them.

A cool breeze touches Felix’s fevered skin. It must be late, he thinks, as it had been around sunset when Miklan’s gang captured them.

“How sweet,” Miklan’s voice bursts whatever semblance of peace they found inside the wagon. “I hope you enjoyed your privacy, because you won’t be getting anymore tonight.” Without waiting for a response, he swipes the sack from his head.

Felix’s chest heaves as he draws in his first breath of fresh air in hours. He blinks furiously and stares around, but in this position all he sees is a velvet black sky blanketed with stars.

And Miklan’s ugly sneer as he looks down on them.

Felix smirks when he notices the bruise purpling the center of his face; so Annette’s spell struck true, just like she said. “What’s that on your face?” he wonders.

Still pressed against him, Miss Dominic struggles to sit up, her own head free of a sack. Her hair flies into his mouth when she shakes her head, and he spits it out with a grumble.

Miklan ignores him. “You’ll spend the night in here,” he says, “so no funny business or you’ll get the sacks back.” His evil eyes drift between Felix and Miss Dominic, his lips curling into a smirk. “Or maybe we’ll let you keep it off so you can watch her—”

Felix sits up without thinking, anger pulsing through him, for once hotter than the pain in his arm and abdomen. He bares his teeth in a snarl, his hand twitching behind his back as he imagines a thousand and one ways to drive his fist through Miklan’s already bruised and scarred face.

Miss Dominic shoves him back with her shoulder at the same instant Miklan steps closer. “Don’t—” She cries out when he grabs her hair.

“I don’t think you understand that you’re on thin ice here,” he says. “Do I need to remind you, _my lady_?”

Miss Dominic squirms, pain written all over her face, and Felix demands, “Let her go! She’s not even the one you want.”

“Oh, but I want her very much,” Miklan retorts, “so the next time I see you even thinking of gutting anyone, I won’t be so lenient.” He lets go of Miss Dominic and marches off, barking orders at his men that linger, watching everything with their dark, malevolent eyes.

She sags into Felix with a whimper. He wants to comfort her, or remind her that when he promised he’d protect her, he _meant_ it, but right now all he can think is how useless of a hireling bodyguard he is.

* * *

Miklan’s men set up a campfire a few paces away from the wagon. As far as Annette can tell from her limited vantage over the side, they’ve only just pulled over on the side of the road, but other than that she has no idea where they are.

But she’s sure that with every league they travel, it’s a league further from her destination.

Annette strains against her bonds yet again, but the rope, secure, refuses to give. The cords dig into her flesh and leave her wrists feeling raw, yet it’s somehow one of the least of her physical complaints.

She’s sure her ankle swells again, straining against the bandages Felix wrapped around it what feels like days or even weeks ago rather than mere hours, her heart beats behind her eyes from exhaustion, and her whole body aches from lying in an awkward position throughout the rough wagon ride. Her stomach growls too, reminding her she hasn’t had anything except a few strips of too-spicy jerky in the last few days, and she’s sure that unless one of these thugs hands her a canteen she’ll die of thirst by sunrise.

Idly she wonders what would become of Dominic if she does die. Her house controls a small territory but can’t even boast the troops necessary to protect it, which is something her marriage to an Alliance nobleman is meant to solve. But if she dies…

The Empire is banking on that with their assassin, she realizes, so Annette _can_ _’t_ die and leave her uncle at odds with an invading army knocking on his castle gates.

Which means she’s in quite a predicament literally traveling towards the Empire with a villain - a real one, not a halfhearted one like Felix - intent on collecting a ransom.

Annette prods at the barrier keeping her from accessing her reservoir of magic. She can only just feel it begin to fade, as if the mage that cast it no longer bothers to maintain it, probably thinking she’s well in hand tied up and stowed in a wagon like another bale of hay (and she’ll show him how wrong he is about _that_ ). Another hour or so, she predicts, and the casting will be weak enough Annette can simply find the end of the spell, tug on it, and let it unravel.

But for now she sags against the side of the wagon, tired…but not so tired she lets down her guard after so many threats of…well, she doesn’t want to think about it.

Felix sits propped up beside her, his leg brushing hers, though he doesn’t seem intent on moving it. Sweat beads on his forehead and slides down his face, his right sleeve bloody from the arrow wound and Miklan’s nasty blow, and his lips never relax from a pained grimace.

Annette’s heart twinges, and she feels useless all over again.

At least the men that rooted through her bag wrote off its contents as useless too. It sits at her feet, her song journal with her letter and the one Ashe frantically passed to her tucked into it and _The Logic of Reason_ dismissed as more worthless (to them) than the gold they pocketed from Felix.

Even if they do escape, Annette doesn’t know how long they can last with Felix in such a state and without any coin.

An owl hoots somewhere deep in the trees. The men - or thugs, really - chatter and jeer around the campfire and, blessedly, leave her and Felix in peace…for the most part.

“You hungry, girl?” one of them wonders. He holds up a stick piercing a few sausages, its juices glistening in the firelight.

Annette’s stomach growls at the sight and smell. “I’d rather starve than eat what you’re serving,” she lies.

The thugs shift, and one of them mumbles a low, “Maybe we should serve her next…”

Miklan himself, not quite hidden in their midst with his head its own fierce brand of flame and the scar splitting his face, calls to her, “Remember my warning. Don’t make your man sweat more than he already is.”

Anger overpowers any of her fear, making her blood boil, but before she can retort, an elbow knocks into her arm. She bites on her tongue, recovering some semblance of reason, and glares at Felix.

He’s lucid enough to follow the proceedings, it seems, for he mumbles, “A-avoid engaging them.”

 _Engaging_ them? Annette _wishes_ she could truly “engage” them; her wind could snuff out their campfire in a wisp of smoke to plunge them into darkness and she and Felix could slip away and—

But it’s impossible. Somehow that feeble course of action would go wrong. Miklan’s mage can cast Fire to illuminate the night, and Felix probably won’t be going anywhere without passing out.

The thugs eventually put out the fire and settle into bedrolls or slumped against the side of the wagon. One of them stands watch over them, crossbow in hand, as if he intends to shoot them like prey should they attempt to run. A sword hangs from his hip too, and for a moment Annette entertains the fantasy of scuffling for it before she wins out and plunges it through his leg so he can’t chase them as they run.

Or through his chest. Dead men can’t give chase either.

Annette refuses to heed her own body’s insistence she give into her need for sleep, even with Felix slipping in and out of consciousness beside her. His head lolls onto her shoulder, and something inside her aches.

He doesn’t seem like much of a villain in this state.

Well, whatever the case, and whoever’s to blame, and whoever Felix even _is_ , they got into this mess together, they’re in it together, and they’ll get out of it together, somehow.

She hums under her breath, wary of the man standing guard - though he has his back to them now - but in need of comfort for herself. _“These ropes on my wrists sure are tight, but at least the stars look pretty tonight…”_

The horse harnessed to the wagon snorts in its sleep. With this darkness and the horse’s company, it reminds Annette of the night she meant to spend in an inn’s stables.

Was it really only a few nights ago? It feels like it’s been ages since Felix saved her life and they set out.

A sigh slips from her. She leans her head against his and murmurs, “I never did thank you, did I, Felix? Well…thank you for, um, everything you’ve done so far even though we’re both broke and you’re…apparently someone important and—”

He sucks in a breath, and Annette’s face flushes, the prospect that he heard every word she said both horrifying and relieving.

But mostly horrifying.

Felix raises his head, his face angled towards hers. He leans close enough she can feel the fever emanating from his skin, and it makes her chest tighten with worry almost as much as an unfamiliar warmth fills her too. In the light of the single lit torch, she can make out a sliver of his amber irises. “Y-you said something?” he asks.

“I, um, yes,” Annette says. She smiles - not sure he can even see it - and decides not to be a coward. “I guess I was just thanking you for—”

“You were singing too,” Felix notes. His eyes slip shut, and at first Annette thinks he’s passed out for true, until he says, “Would you sing…more?”

Her face burns while her breath sticks in her throat; no one, except her mother when she was still small enough to sit in her lap, ever asked her to sing _more_.

Annette licks her lips, every thought that flits through her head too quick for her to grasp in the wake of such a request. “You’d, uh, like that sort of thing?”

Felix doesn’t answer, his voice doesn’t fill the painful pause between one breath and the next. His head turns so his gaze lands on their guard. “M-maybe—”

The guard jerks up, his shoulders straightening as he raises his crossbow. At first Annette, her heart jumping into her throat, thinks he’s about to scold them for talking, but then he steps away from them.

“Who’s there?” he shouts into the trees. “Show yourself!”

“With pleasure,” a chilling voice says…right before the tip of a blade dark with blood bursts from the guard’s back.

The guard doesn’t have the chance to scream, but a strangled gasp escapes him before his body slides off the blade. Over him, his wicked smirk silhouetted by torchlight, stands the assassin that attacked Annette a mere few nights ago.

Metodey kicks the guard’s body. “Poor man didn’t know what was coming to him,” he says. Then his eyes fall on her, and his smirk pulls wider. “Did you miss me, Miss Dominic?”

Annette’s jaws flap uselessly. She scoots away from him, shoving Felix behind her, as if Metodey cares about him rather than her. She swallows, a faint effort to relieve some of the wetness in her throat, and pulls air into her lungs to scream.

Felix stirs at her back. “‘Nette? Miss Dominic?” His voice rises with alarm, her name falling clearer from his lips more than anything he’s said to her since they halted. “It’s—”

“I know,” Annette hisses.

Metodey’s smirk morphs into a scowl as Miklan’s camp stirs behind him. “Troublesome, troublesome,” he pronounces. “I’d hoped to take care of you quietly before slipping away, back to deliver your head to Her Majesty, and I still can!”

Heedless to the shouts behind him, Metodey climbs onto the wagon and raises his dagger. Annette flinches as she reaches for her magic, never mind that she knows it’s useless, that any second the blade will bite into her skin and her blood will soak her dress and she’ll fail her uncle and her people and _Felix_ —

Annette bursts through the flimsy webbing between her and the reservoir of energy. It floods her, the dam keeping it from her bursting and warming her to her core. Her hair lifts as wind collects around her, and for lack of arm motion she whispers proofs under her breath.

Metodey recoils, raising a hand to shield his eyes. “Th-this is nothing!” he snaps before pinning her with his gaze again. He drops his sword and grabs her shoulder instead.

A glyph bursts into life between them, and through it Annette channels her winds. They strike Metodey in the chest with such force they blast him from the wagon, his dagger slipping through his fingers and falling with a clatter into the wagon.

Annette’s heart jumps into her throat as she scrambles for it. “Felix, the knife!” she gasps. Her body aches after so much hard travel, but with Metodey’s attack and the magic brimming within her, she feels as if she’s jumped headfirst into a cold, turbulent river.

Metodey lies somewhere beyond the wagon, the torch’s light illuminating his face as he jumps to his feet…only for Miklan’s thugs to pile on him. He dodges an arrow and swipes his arm through a weak stream of flame from the mage, snarling as swords and Miklan’s own ax rain down on him.

Annette shrinks away, but then Felix says, 

“Huh—ow!” The sudden release of pressure on her wrists shoots pain up her arms and through her shoulders.

“S-sorry,” he mumbles. She spies movement from the corner of her eye: Felix’s hand finding the hilt of Metodey’s sword. “We need to get out of here while they’re preoccupied.”

“Your shoulder—”

“We can worry about it later,” Felix says. He makes to climb out of the wagon…but Annette grabs his arm to stop him.

“Wait,” she says, her eyes widening and a smile nudging at her lips, “this is a wagon, and they never unharnessed the horse.”

“Yes”—he stares at her, uncomprehending—”and we have to—oh.” His own eyes widen, and he flashes her a smirk that’s a welcome relief from the grimace that seemed frozen onto his face. “Do it.”

Annette climbs out of the wagon from the front. No small amount of excitement thrills through her blood, almost drowning out the sounds of the small battle raging behind her. She shakes her hands to work blood into her numb, rope-burned wrists before grabbing the reins.

The horse shifts in place, tossing its head, nervous at the scent of blood or the shouting and clashing of weapons. “It’s all right,” Annette tries to soothe it, leaning forward as far as she dares to pat its rump. “We’ll get you out of here.”

She cracks the reins.

The horse whinnies, stomping its hoof, and for one heart-stopping moment Annette worries she miscalculated, that it’ll refuse to go, or that blocks trap the wagon wheels, or—

But she frowns in determination and tries again.

This time the wagon lurches under her, and the horse pulls it away.

Annette holds her breath, daring to believe her mad idea worked. “Ya!” she shouts.

Spurred by her shout and the wagon’s reins, the horse walks faster, its hooves clopping against the road’s pavement. Her heart beats in her throat, her shoulders stiff with tension, Felix behind her urging her to urge the horse faster.

“Wait, secure the bounty!” Miklan roars, but by then it’s too late.

They race down the road in their stolen wagon and leave Metodey and Miklan and the promise of torment in their dust. Annette whoops, thrilled with everything and with herself; she’s never done anything so wild in her life. What does it matter if every jolt of the wagon sends a shock up her spine and the night wind makes a worse tangle of her hair?

“Felix!” she exclaims. “Can you believe it? We actually did it! We actually escaped!” She glances over her shoulder towards where he’s slumped in the wagon, his back to her and his head lolling to the side. “Felix?” she tries again. “Sir Sellsword?”

His head jerks up, spinning around to look at her. “We escaped,” he echoes. A smile flits across his face, and the sight warms her before he clutches at his injured shoulder and grimaces. “Damn…”

The exhilaration fades fast. The horse tires, and the eastern sky lightens with the coming dawn.

But at least they’re free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing like medieval grand theft auto to liven up a story, am i right?


	4. wouldn't it be nice to start again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What goes up must roll down a hill! Won't a kind stranger help our poor beleaguered travelers?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. No violence in this chapter BUT there is some potentially weighty description of injury so if you're squeamish might want to skip the paragraph that starts "Miss Dominic grips the shaft of the arrow..."
> 
> [insert jokes about Chrom's single sleeve here]
> 
> Anyway, that aside, hope you enjoy this chapter! we're moving along now if you know what i mean...

They stop the wagon just before sunrise, when foam flecks the horse’s flanks and when Felix can barely keep his own eyes open. The giddiness that filled him upon their escape faded fast, and the last of it leaving him now gives way to a dulling pain in his shoulder.

Miss Dominic - he can scarcely believe she got them out of that mess almost singlehandedly, just as he hates himself for being practically dead weight the entire time - clambers back into the wagon with him. He flinches when her fingertips brush his chin, and she pulls back with a muttered, “Sorry, I was just checking if you were awake.”

“I’m awake,” he says. He struggles to crawl towards the back of the wagon, intent on climbing out so they can continue, but Miss Dominic plants her hands against his chest and shoves him back.

“Whoa, Felix, where do you think you’re going?” she demands. “We need to rest, and you’re in no fit state to walk anywhere.”

Felix’s hand tightens around the hilt of his stolen blade - Metodey’s dropped sword, glistening with poison, how _disgusting_. His grip on it hasn’t faltered since he acquired it, and he’s reluctant to let it go now. “We can’t afford to,” he insists, “not with two enemies on our trail.”

“Well, maybe…Miklan and his men took care of the assassin for us,” Miss Dominic says with a hopeful smile on her lips.

He almost regrets telling her, “Unlikely. He’s obviously a slimy bastard.”

She sighs but seems to accept his words easily enough, even nodding. “Like a frog. But…”

“I can walk,” he tells her. “There’s nothing wrong with my legs.” He glances past her…at her ankle. “What about yours?”

“So…that’s another thing.” Miss Dominic offers him a sheepish smile. “I think it got…worse.”

“ _Worse_?” Felix takes a deep breath to control his temper, but his blood still runs hot. He rakes a hand over his face and grits out, “Good, perfect, fantastic.”

“Well, it’s not like it’s _my_ fault,” Miss Dominic argues, her face flushing with anger. She slides away from him and roots around the bottom of the wagon, collecting whatever miscellany she finds: a knife (also dropped by Metodey, the one Felix used to cut their bindings), scraps of ropes with frayed ends, and her own bag with its contents still intact. “It must’ve been aggravated between everything that happened, that’s all.”

Despite her insistence that she’s not to blame, her final words sound…low and dejected to Felix. Shame fills him, shame and no small amount of regret, because Miklan came after him, and she just happened to suffer the misfortune of accompanying him. “I, uh, I know it’s not your fault,” he tells her, leaning his head back to look at the lightening sky to avoid looking at her instead. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s—”

“I know!” Miss Dominic bursts out then, cutting him off. When he glances at her, she’s not even looking at him, too busy digging through her bag and…tugging out the same dress she wore when they met.

It’s as much a mess as when he first laid eyes on her, with its dirty hem and stains and tears in the fabric. “What…are you doing?”

She takes the knife and cuts into the dress, tearing out a single long strip from the skirt. “I’m not much use as a healer since my studies focused more on Reason and black magic,” Miss Dominic explains, “but I can at least make a bandage for your arrow wound, all right?”

Felix blinks at her, his sluggish mind slow to comprehend. “…what?”

“There’s a foreign object in your body,” she adds as she kneels on his right, “and I know it’s stopping you from bleeding too much, but even I know that if it stays in for much longer, it will get infected.”

“If it isn’t already…” he mumbles. His skin is flushed under his jacket, eyes burning with fever, and if not for the arrow itself and the pain, he would’ve tried to strip it off for some relief.

He’s from a cold land; he’s never had much of a tolerance for the heat.

He watches Miss Dominic grip the arrow at the base of the shaft as if it’s happening to another person. Her tongue pokes out, a furrow of concentration in her brow, and he just…stares. He blinks again and again, his eyelids heavy, but if he stops blinking he’ll fall asleep and with Miklan sure to be on their heels falling asleep is the last thing he can afford if he wants to make sure he and Miss Dominic survive to make it to the next town, much less Gloucester.

“Ann—Miss Dominic…” he says, trailing off, because he’s not sure how he wants to finish that sentence. Maybe to apologize since he’s been such a lousy bodyguard, or maybe to insist she needn’t bother with his wounds just yet, or maybe even to ask her to sing one of her haunting melodies to tear his mind and body away from the pain.

But every possibility sounds more foolish than the last, so he holds his tongue and waits to bite it the instant she liberates the arrowhead from his flesh.

“Wait, sorry!” Miss Dominic drops her hand, and for a moment Felix thinks she’s lost her nerve (or come to her senses) until she hands him the rest of her ruined dress. “Bite down on this.”

“Again,” he says, “I ask…what?”

“For the pain,” she says, simply. “So you don’t bite your tongue or scream? I’m sure the last thing you want to do with so many dangerous men after us is to scream, right?”

“Fine, yes.” He takes the dress and stuffs a wadded up sleeve between his teeth; if she wants to play at being a physician, he may as well be prudent about it.

Miss Dominic grips the shaft of the arrow and, with a low grunt of effort, tugs. He winces at a sudden stab of pain arcing through his flesh, biting down on fabric, and as she pulls harder his hands curl into fists. His nails dig into his palms, his heart racing, and when he thinks he can black out from the unquenchable fire burning under his skin, she gives one last jerk and raises an arrow with a bloodied head.

She flashes him a triumphant grin and exclaims, “Aha!”

Felix smacks a hand over his arm, now gushing blood. “Very nice,” he says, “but the blood…”

“Right, of course,” Miss Dominic says, nodding. She finds the makeshift bandage and slips it under his arm, but before she starts tying it she mumbles, “Is it supposed to go over the wound or above it?”

Felix breathes out through his nose. “ _Onto_ it,” he grumbles, “on bare skin.”

“O-oh!” she gasps. “Then you need to take off your jacket!” She moves to help him, but he jerks away from her, intent on managing this much for himself.

His fingers, clumsy with exhaustion, fumble with the buttons. It hurts no more tugging his right arm out of the sleeve; he’s not sure how it can possibly hurt anymore. But he lets Miss Dominic cut off his shirtsleeve almost up to his shoulder, exposing the ugly bruising and gash from Miklan’s ax.

She grimaces and says, “You’re lucky that’s not so bad.”

Felix shrugs and immediately regrets it. “I’ve had worse.”

Her eyes widen with horror. “You…”

“I’m a sellsword,” he says, rolling his eyes, “and before that I practically grew up with a sword in my hand.” His eyes slip shut, his mind slipping into memory. “I saw my first battle when I was fourteen; this is…nothing.”

“Still…” Her touch is light, almost gentle, as she slides the makeshift bandage back under his arm. “You can’t be much older than I am. We might even be the same age.”

He grunts in acknowledgment but winces when she starts wrapping and tightening the bandage. “We’ve just lived different lives,” he says. “You studied your sorcery and grew into a bride, and I learned the blade and how to take lives.”

Miss Dominic yanks the bandage tight with startling strength, but Felix doesn’t flinch. “You say that like you had no choice,” she observes, frowning when he dares to glance up at her face through bleary eyes.

“I didn’t,” he says. “The only choice I ever made for myself was the day I left.”

“You…left,” Miss Dominic echoes. She ties the bandage and leans back to admire her handiwork.

His heart skips an expectant beat, but she doesn’t comment further, not even when his eyes flick up to meet hers. She’s sparing him, he guesses, on account of his condition, for which he’s…glad, whatever the reason.

Blood oozes slower from the wound, and his right arm - his _sword_ arm - feels numb and heavy and useless dangling from his shoulder. But he shrugs off the rest of his jacket and slides across the wagon.

“Let’s go,” he tells her, carefully dropping his legs off the back and landing on his feet. His head spins as he balances, but he steadies himself with one hand against the wagon. Clumsily he sheathes Metodey’s sword - his now, he supposes, though he resolves to replace it as soon as he can - with his left hand.

“What?” Miss Dominic stares down at him. “You want to leave this wagon?”

“We can’t afford to stop here at the side of the road,” Felix reminds her, “and it would be cruel to wake the poor beast after we worked it so hard.”

She scoffs but, to his surprise, climbs down after him with her bag slung over her shoulder. “You’re the last person I expected to be so considerate of a horse.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands.

“You’re such a villain, driving yourself like this,” Miss Dominic retorts. “I would’ve thought you did the same to everyone and everything else.”

“I’m not _cruel_ ,” Felix says, his ears burning with something other than fever, and for once her words…hurt. “Look, I’ll even prove it.” He rounds the wagon, keeping his balance with a hand along the wagon, and stops beside the horse.

It sleeps soundly, tail barely twitching and emitting soft nickers as if it dreams of hay or oats or apples.

Felix sort of wishes he carried an apple, or at least two (because he’d like one for himself to take the edge off the hunger he now notices gnawing at his stomach), for it, but all he has is one functional hand with which to clumsily unharness it from the wagon.

“There,” he says once the harness drops to the ground and sending up a low cloud of dust. “As soon as it wakes, it can escape, just like us.”

Miss Dominic snorts, but when he glances at her a smile plays about her lips. “You’re funny, Felix.”

“Funny?” He stares at her. He’s been called many things in his life and in his time as a sellsword by allies and foes alike, but _funny_ is certainly not one of them. “How am I _funny_?”

Is she teasing him? He can’t tell, but something in her smile makes something warm spread through his chest.

It’s not important, he decides, at the same time Miss Dominic shrugs and says, “I don’t know. Some things you say are just…funny.” Her ears, poking through her frizzing hair, flush as vibrant a red. “Let’s just get on with it.”

The road itself is level, so Felix supposes it should be an easy enough walk. He hopes the horse and wagon drove them leagues away to avoid pursuit for at least a few days; walking off the road here would require trekking through hilly forests, with a ravine sloping gently down to a line of trees on either side of the road.

But Miss Dominic barely takes a step before her leg gives out.

Felix catches her before she falls, his left hand around her elbow until she stands upright again. “If you can’t walk,” he says, “I won’t be carrying you.” Not that he can carry her in his state.

Miss Dominic pouts, but then, as she finds her footing - if limping and occasionally grabbing his arm for balance along the way - brightens, a spark in her eyes that he recognizes from when she had the brilliant idea of stealing Miklan’s horse and wagon.

In this moment, Felix isn’t sure he trusts that spark.

“I have an idea!” she says, grinning.

He doesn’t trust that grin, full of cunning, either.

Still - and more fool him, perhaps - he prompts, “What is it?”

“What if we returned the way we came?” Miss Dominic wonders. “There were Kingdom knights in town, weren’t there? We can alert the authorities about Miklan, and we can make it to a church so we can both get healed, and—”

“No,” Felix says immediately, shaking his head. “It’s too dangerous to double back since we risk running into Miklan and that assassin while we’re in this state”—while he’s too weak to fight and carries a poisoned sword and looks a fool missing a sleeve in his only shirt—”which would definitely be suspicious to the same knights standing guard outside the town.”

“But we don’t know when we’ll reach the next town!” Miss Dominic insists, waving her arms emphatically. “You _need_ a priest or trained physician to look over you whether you realize it or not.”

“Maybe so,” he agrees, “but Count Rowe is the last man whose knights I’d want aid from.”

“Count—Count Rowe?” She swivels her head around as if she expects the man himself to ride up the hill adjacent to the road. “We’re in his lands?”

“Yes,” Felix says, terse, “and he’s only a little more pleasant than Miklan, if far more chivalrous.” He doesn’t bother moderating his scathing tone; he need not be shy about what he thinks.

“Takes one to know one,” Miss Dominic grumbles under her breath. Louder, she demands, “And how would you even know if Count Rowe is unpleasant but chivalrous? Do you know him?”

He stiffens at her direct question, his heart racing leagues in just the space it takes for him to breathe. “I know…of him,” he relents, which is technically true.

“So he hasn’t tried to hire you or anything?”

Felix scoffs, “As if any Kingdom noble would hire a sellsword when they have knights sworn to them.”

(He doesn’t tell her he makes a point to never allow a Kingdom noble to hire him if he can help it.)

Miss Dominic shoots him a glare. “ _I_ _’m_ a Kingdom noble that’s hired a sellsword.”

“You didn’t pay me,” he retorts. “Does it even count?”

The heat in her gaze only grows more intense, but he refuses to quail under it. He keeps up the pace, because despite a brewing quarrel they need to put as much distance between them and their pursuers as possible before exhaustion forces them to stop.

“You know,” Miss Dominic says in a tone that suggests she’s about to say something he won’t like on purpose, “why don’t I go to Count Rowe myself and ask him for an escort to Gloucester? I wouldn’t have to deal with you and your—your _unpleasantness_ anymore, and you wouldn’t have to deal with me.”

Felix halts before rounding on her, slowly, deliberately. His chest tightens painfully, and he’s not sure why, but more than that is the frustration that takes him, that overrules any good sense he has and makes his tongue run faster than his mind.

“Really?” he snaps. “Say you do that, Miss Dominic. What guarantee do you have that Rowe would even be willing to hear you out? His seat is near Arianrhod too, which, unless I’m mistaken, is leagues in the other direction.” He points behind her, in the way they came, and leans towards her, his voice low and insistent. “That slimy assassin would find you before you even make it, and would slit your throat in your sleep before you have a chance to wave your arms and blast him with a spell.”

Miss Dominic sucks in a breath, but, stubborn as he is - perhaps even more - she stands her ground. “But if I do get there—”

“Count Rowe won’t help you,” Felix insists, “because as soon as he learns what happened to your original escort, he won’t send his knights to your wedding just for them to be slaughtered by Empire operatives on the way!”

At last she recoils, her eyes flicking away from his face as her lips draw into a frown. His heart stutters watching hurt fill her face, and he wonders if maybe his temper took him too far, as it’s wont to do.

He reaches towards her with his one useful hand. “Annette—”

The steady pounding of hooves and the creaking of wagon wheels cuts off any conciliatory words he might’ve said. His head jerks up, staring past her at the same instant she turns her head.

A mule clops towards them along the road, drawing closer with every step, and Felix doesn’t stop to think.

He grabs Miss Dominic’s arm and tugs her behind him as he darts off the road and down the hill.

She gasps a heartbeat before she stumbles. She reaches for him to recover her balance…only for her to drag him down with her.

He lands painfully on his bare, injured arm, the wind knocked out of his lungs before he _rolls_ down the hill, deeper into the ravine. The sky spins above him, wheeling and wheeling and wheeling until he doesn’t know which way is up and which way is down.

Felix wouldn’t know when he stops rolling for his head and the sky spinning overhead if not for his back colliding with the ground at the base of the hill. He groans, his stomach barely settling after its own rough treatment before something lands atop him.

Or…someone.

“Ow—oof.” Miss Dominic stirs on top of him. As his vision steadies, her face swims into view. She blinks her own dizziness away, rubbing her head, before her gaze snaps to his face.

He stares back, his heart racing - it’s from the tumble, he tells himself, for what else can it be? - and his face warm. He parts his lips to say something, perhaps tell her to get off of him, but his mouth is too dry to force words out.

Miss Dominic’s cheeks color, but she’s quicker of wit than him and jumps off him. “S-sorry!” she exclaims, landing beside him. “Are you—”

“Hello!” an unfamiliar voice calls from somewhere above them. “Good morning! Are you two all right?”

When Felix blinks, a man climbs down the hill to join them before bending over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. Felix struggles to sit up, but when pain lances up his arm - oh, good, is it _worse_? - he pauses. Useless though it probably is, he reaches for the hilt of his sword at the same instant a glyph ignites the air between him and Miss Dominic and the stranger.

The man - dressed in the long robes of a priest - straightens, raises his hand, and smiles. “Please,” he says, “I mean you no harm.” His gaze drifts down to Felix’s arm, pausing on the bloody bandage. “If you like, I can even heal that.”

“Oh,” Miss Dominic says, her glyph vanishing as she crumples, burying her face in her hands before all but sobbing, “Thank the goddess.”

* * *

The mule and cart they feared was Miklan’s or even Metodey’s belonged to the priest that met them at the bottom of the hill, and even before he healed Felix, Annette thought he was her favorite person in all of Fodlan.

Well, that was not strictly true, but his kindness can rival Mercie’s, who Annette misses so intensely it hurts.

A campfire crackles merrily before her, though it’s daylight and the weather is mild, and Annette’s sure that if Felix wasn’t unconscious in a wagon he’d scold them for risking drawing unwanted attention with the smoke.

At the moment she can’t bring herself to care, not while she eats her first hot meal in days (or a week; has it been a week yet?) and while sharing pleasant company with someone other than Felix himself (not that he makes for pleasant company…for the most part).

Her spoon scrapes the bottom of her pewter bowl, which she raises to lick every last drop of grease to sate her hunger. Her face flushes when she remembers she’s not alone, and she lowers it to more demurely mumble, “Thank you for the meal.”

The priest - who called himself Rhys - only smiles and prods at the logs in the campfire. “I was happy to share, Miss,” he says, “though I regret I don’t make the best cook. I was just returning to town after visiting my parents on their farm, and as usual my mother gave me more food than I need for the journey.”

“Still…” She glances over her shoulder towards the wagon, where she can only just make out the slope of Felix’s freshly bandaged shoulder. He sleeps the day away, though despite passing out the instant he lay prone, it took Annette promising she’d wake him should a threat arise…and Rhys threatening to put him into a magic-induced sleep.

“We’re strangers,” she points out to Rhys. She stares into the fire, reluctant to find regret in his eyes, and continues, “You have no reason to help us; we could be highway robbers or—or fugitives”—she barely knows if _Felix_ is a fugitive—”or worse, right?”

Rhys smiles - he does it often, Annette notices, and maybe that’s why _she_ _’s_ so eager to trust him - and clasps his hands in his lap. “When I found you at the bottom of the hill, you scarcely looked dangerous.”

Annette…wants to be offended, but with her ankle - now healed, also thanks to him - and Felix’s own condition, she can only smile sheepishly. Felix may beg to differ, but she doesn’t care what he thinks.

(For now, anyway.)

She again looks over at Felix, worry tugging at her gut as she bites her lip. She fidgets with the strap on her bag for lack of anything else to do, replaying their last quarrel in her head.

 _“Count Rowe won’t help you,”_ he said, but what she heard was, _“I’ve gotten into all this trouble just for helping you.”_

And maybe he’s right. If not for Annette, he could’ve evaded Miklan and his thugs, and Metodey wouldn’t be a threat to him either. The last thing she wants is for someone else to go the same way as Ashe and her escort, but unless by some miracle their two pursuers took care of each other, Annette thinks it’s only a matter of time.

Guilt stabs at her all over again, guilt and her own sense of helplessness, that she can’t do anything she intends to, not even marry a stranger. She reaches for her pendant…only for her fingers to grasp at emptiness.

“He’ll be all right,” Rhys says, tearing Annette from her bleak thoughts. When she glances at him, he nods behind her towards where Felix convalesces. “His wounds weren’t as awful as they looked, and that bandage he already had certainly helped.”

Annette can’t feel too gratified by the praise…but a smile does make its way onto her lips. “I was worried,” she admits. She wipes at her face, startled when her fingers come away wet. “I just, um…”

“I understand,” says the priest with a kind smile. “He’s precious to you, so you want him to be well. But don’t worry, he’s quite strong too to have withstood his injuries for so long.”

Annette barely hears his words after _“he’s precious to you”_. “Uh…” she says dumbly. “He’s, um…” For some reason she hesitates telling Rhys that Felix is just a sellsword she hired to protect her till she reaches Gloucester, though it’s an easier truth to swallow than _he_ _’s precious to her_.

Felix isn’t “precious” to her; she met him barely a week ago, and sure, he saved her life about three or four times (she’s not keeping count) since then but she still knows hardly anything about him - he could be a fugitive from the Kingdom or Empire for all she knows! - and he’s so rude and quick-tempered sometimes he makes her head spin.

For some reason her mind catches on that instant when a different wagon tossed them about like a couple sacks of bruised potatoes, when his head rested on her shoulder and she could feel the heat emanating from his feverish skin and he said in a low, delirious voice, _“Would you sing…more?”_

Annette shakes her head to clear the memory away; it wouldn’t do to linger on it, not now.

Rhys’ next words are a more than welcome distraction from her thoughts. “If you want to continue to town with me,” he says, “I’d be happy to give you a ride.” His smile turns mischievous, which startles Annette enough she returns it. “You and I even look a little alike; if someone asks, we can pretend you’re my younger sister.”

She laughs, amused by the prospect…and not a little relieved he deduced for himself that she and Felix are in some kind of trouble. “But what about Felix?” she wonders. “He doesn’t look much like either of us.”

Rhys raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t he your husband?”

Her eyes widen so far she’s half-worried they’ll fall from her skull and land on the ground and roll away somewhere she can’t find them blind or not. Her grip on her bag tightens when her heart skips a beat, and she hurriedly shakes her head. “N-no, he’s not,” she says. “I’m actually on my way to marry someone else, he’s just my escort. We’re not—”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Rhys covers his face with a hand. “I shouldn’t have assumed. I just thought from how you worry about each other—”

“He’s my _escort_ ,” Annette insists, never mind her burning ears, “or bodyguard, if you prefer.”

“Of course, of course,” he says, nodding. “I apologize. With him in that state, there’s no way that tumble you took down the hill would’ve been anything other than an accident.”

She wishes the ground would open up and swallow her whole, perhaps even spit her out somewhere all the way in Almyra or the Sreng desert so she wouldn’t have to deal with a reality where someone assumes she and Felix - as if she would want to marry a secretive villain like _Felix_ \- are married. “Yes,” Annette agrees with a high-pitched laugh that sounds false to her own ears, “that was an accident. Felix is just very…jumpy.”

(Her wrist burns where he grabbed her.)

Rhys lets them lapse into silence, leaving Annette to her swirling, spiraling thoughts. With nothing but her worries to occupy her, the letters tucked into her journal burn holes through her bag, between the one Ashe pressed into her hands before he perished and her own half-written wedding announcement to—

“You should sleep too, Miss,” Rhys suggests. “I won’t set out till evening, I think, and there’s room in the wagon for two to lie down.”

Annette’s had enough of lying down in wagons, but rather than mention that, she asks, “What about you? Healing us would’ve taken a lot of energy.”

Rhys waves a dismissive hand. “I’m not as frail as all that,” he promises. “I think you have enough on your mind without worrying about me.”

He’s right, but she doesn’t want to admit it. Still, her whole body aches after rolling down the hill, and with a bowl of hearty stew in her and her ankle healed, her physical complaints are such that a few hours of sleep should…improve them. She stands, arms out when her head spins, and walks to the wagon to climb in and lie beside Felix.

Maybe this was poorly thought out…with Rhys’ assumptions swimming through her head, the last thing she wants is to sleep right next to Felix, dead to the world or not. Still, she lays her head on her bag and turns onto her side, her back to him and his…almost enticing warmth, blessedly less intense than the heat of a fever.

Sleeping with Felix to her back feels strange, especially since she can’t forget Miklan’s words about him; everything she learns leaves her more confused than ever. How can she trust him to escort her halfway across Fodlan when she knows so little about him?

But she forgets the awkwardness, forgets her worries and fears in favor of the comfort she can’t help drawing from his presence, the instant she closes her eyes.

* * *

When Felix wakes he doesn’t know where he is, but his neck and arm ache and a warm weight lies against his back and—

Annette.

He bolts upright, eyes wide and head spinning around. He’s in a wagon - _not again_ \- and the sun is…setting, he thinks. He slides towards the back of the wagon before hanging his feet over and resting his hands—

His hands. He raises them; his shirt is missing a right sleeve, and an angry red colors his wrists, but he has full use of both arms even if the right one still aches underneath a bandage. And Annette…where’s Miss Dominic?

Felix’s heart races in alarm, in an almost alien mounting fear. He clambers out of the wagon, grabbing his sword belt as he goes, and rests a hilt on his sword - not his sword; stolen from the assassin - when he finds the priest leaning against the side of the wagon. “Where’s Annette?” he demands.

The priest’s head jerks up - Felix hadn’t realized he napped; he must still be weaker than he thought - and blinks at him. “Oh,” he says, “did she wake and slip away without me noticing?” When Felix just glares at him, he smiles and nods back towards the wagon. “Did you check in there? She may still be asleep.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He spins around and marches to the wagon to find Miss Dominic lying prone, her lips parted in a silent snore and her arms clutching at her bag.

Relief nearly knocks Felix off his (admittedly weak) feet. He rakes a hand down his face and sighs.

“So you’re assured?” The priest’s voice draws his attention, and with one last glance at Miss Dominic, he joins him. “Here.” He offers up a bowl of a stew to Felix. “I’m afraid it’s gone cold, but we saved you some for when you woke.”

He stares at the bowl, suspicious of its contents despite the growling of his stomach, before settling down across from the priest and accepting. He sets his sword belt aside and digs in.

It’s cold, and flavorless but for copious cooking grease, but Felix has never tasted anything better in his life.

While he eats, the priest dozes off, head tilting down and arms crossed over his chest. It’s a pose he recognizes having used it himself when he napped between jobs or for a few hours at a time when he couldn’t sleep a full night away.

Except this time, it seems he slept a whole day away at the least.

“So,” says the priest, looking awake and alert by the time Felix’s spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl, “I never got an answer to my offer from your companion, so perhaps you’ll tell me.”

Felix balances the bowl on his knee. “What is it?” He thinks he owes the priest that healed him to a point where his wound no longer bleeds and the only complaint he can make is of stiffness in his sword arm.

“I’m on my way to town,” the priest says, “and, if you like, I can take you along with me.”

“East or west?” Felix wonders, because even he’s not foolish enough to overlook such a generous offer (despite being at risk of owing the priest even _more_ ).

“Ah, east,” says the priest, smiling. “My church is in a nice little town some ten leagues of here, inside Church territory. I’m hoping to make it by noon the day after tomorrow.”

Felix’s hand tightens around his spoon as he considers. A slow pace, but not much slower than he and Miss Dominic, with her ankle healed, would manage at a walk…though the risk taking a main road poses may be too great, and the last thing he wants is to embroil yet another person in his troubles.

“I thank you for the offer,” he says, “but I’m afraid—”

“Actually yes,” Miss Dominic’s voice bursts in a heartbeat before Miss Dominic herself jumps out of the wagon and approaches them. “We accept!” When Felix shoots a glare at her, she glares back and says, “We can don disguises, you know. We probably should’ve been doing that all along.”

“With what clothes?” he demands. “All my belongings were stolen, and I doubt I can fit into the spare dress you tore up for bandages.”

Miss Dominic laughs. “I’d like to see you try,” she says.

Felix’s lips twitch, but he refuses to smile despite the warmth that seeing her laugh shoots through his chest. Their predicament, to be sure, is a sobering ordeal, so he frowns all too easily before he wonders, “Then what do you suggest?”

“Well, Rhys did suggest I could pose as his sister,” Miss Dominic explains with a thoughtful tap on her chin. She turns to the priest, who just watches them debate with a bemused smile on his face, and asks, “Do you have an extra set of priest’s robes?”

His eyes widen; how is he meant to fight any foe that challenges them with so much fabric flapping about his legs? “I am not—”

“You can still carry a sword, Felix,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Some priests carry weapons when traveling, it’s not that unusual. And you look kind of silly with only one sleeve.”

To his horror, Rhys nods in agreement. “I do have a spare set, though they may be a little small on you.”

Oh, perfect, so not only would Felix look a fool, but he would look a fool in ill-fitting clothes.

“Perhaps a haircut too,” Rhys suggests with a thoughtful frown directed at him.

His fingers find the hair bundled up at the back of his head; it’s been long enough since he let it down, let alone washed it, that grease and sweat stain it. His lip curls with revulsion - he’s in desperate need of a bath the instant they reach an inn safely - but to Rhys he says, “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Miss Dominic wonders, tilting her head to the side. “I can cut it for you - I used to cut my own hair sometimes, you know - and we can tie it up differently so you look just different enough.”

Felix’s heart races, as if it’s his life on the line rather than his hair. He should be able to accept - it’s a reasonable enough idea, despite his dislike of it - yet…

“Fine,” he says, “just make sure it’s still long enough I can tie it. I hate fighting with my hair in my face.”

“That wouldn’t be a problem if we cut it very short,” Miss Dominic notes. His eyes narrow as they land on her, before she shrugs and says, “Suit yourself. Do you have any scissors, Rhys?”

Felix half-hopes he doesn’t for all of two heartbeats before he stands and walks to his wagon to root through one of his bags. When he turns back around to face them, smiling serenely, a pair of scissors hangs from his fingers.

Miss Dominic swipes them. “Perfect!” she says. She scrutinizes Felix then, her lips twisted into a frown. “It would be easier if your hair was wet, but—”

Rhys offers her a canteen. “There’s a creek not far from here,” he says. “It’ll be an easy matter to refill it by dark, so long as you’re quick.”

“Thank you!” She all but _beams_ at Rhys - why does Felix’s gut twist at that? - before returning her attention to him. She grabs his wrist and pulls him towards the wagon. “Now sit, you’re too tall for me to cut your hair while you’re standing.”

Felix isn’t sure he can trust Miss Dominic, who’s so often angry with him, with scissors so close to his face, but he accepts her manhandling and perches at the edge of the wagon, with his back to a standing Annette while Rhys busies himself breaking camp.

He pulls the tie out himself, the feeling of his own hair hanging over his ears and past his shoulders nearly alien after leaving it up for so many days. Miss Dominic’s fingers running through it is another alien sensation, one that sends a not unpleasant shiver up his spine, and Felix realizes he can’t remember the last time someone else touched his hair.

It was before he left, he thinks, and perhaps even longer ago than that.

Miss Dominic upends the canteen into his hair. The water is pleasantly warm wetting his scalp and washing some of the dirt from his hair, though some soaks into his collar. The scissors click near his ears, a whisper of metal nothing like swords clashing, yet still he can’t help stiffening.

She works quietly, and a little slowly, perhaps afraid of cutting unevenly, though Felix wants to reassure her he doesn’t really care and…wonders how she’d react if he asked her to sing. But the words stick in his throat as he remembers the last time they were alone, before he dragged her down the hill and Rhys found them.

“I’m…sorry,” he ekes out through his dry mouth.

“About…about what?” Miss Dominic wonders, her voice so close to his ear he has to suppress a shiver.

“About what I said before…before,” he explains. His eyes slip shut, and he inhales to ease some of the tension in his spine. “I shouldn’t have…suggested you’re to blame for any of this. You’re not, obviously, and if anyone is it’s—”

“The Empire,” Miss Dominic cuts Felix off before he can incriminate himself. The scissors still, but her hand rests against the back of his head to hold it steady. “Or, I guess, the Emperor is more specifically.”

“Yes…” he allows. “But I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

She sucks in a breath, her hand falling to his shoulder, and he wishes he could see her face to at least attempt to decipher whatever expression she wears. “You were right in part though, Felix,” she says, “and you were exhausted. I say stupid things when I’m tired all the time!”

Felix scoffs, for her words do nothing to untangle the guilt coiling in his abdomen. “Right.”

“Really!” Miss Dominic insists. She parts his hair in two, the snipping of the scissors filling his ears again. “It’s just that…well, I shouldn’t have been so mean to you back.”

He rests a hand against his forehead and snorts. “I deserved it then.”

“It was still rude,” she says. “I’m hardly marriageable if I let my temper get the best of me like that.”

Felix wonders if he imagines the hurt in her voice, wonders if it’s directed at him or towards herself, wonders if it’s all she sees herself as is wife to a man she’s never met. His chest aches, and the sensation is unfamiliar enough he doesn’t immediately recognize it as sympathy.

Possessed by some strange impulse, he covers Annette’s hand on his shoulder with his fingers as she sings, _“Hair falling in the wind, wouldn’t it be nice to start again…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was only one...wagon? Whether or not Annette can heal in my fics is very inconsistent and totally dependent on what's going on. In this case I guess i just wanted them to suffer more! Same story with Felix and Reason, though i'm less likely to give it any real thought (and it shows since i have only like...two fics where he casts any spells)
> 
> Felix in this fic is literally that one Rosa Diaz Brooklyn Nine-Nine meme and i wouldn't have it any other way
> 
> And there he is, the first named OC NPC in the fic! Namesake is good boy Rhys from Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn


	5. when I'm clean I help my mood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even safely ensconced behind the walls of a town, Felix and Annette are far from secure.
> 
> And they're also very, very broke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> even months after i finished it this fic still holds a special place in my heart so...i'm glad you're all enjoying it too <3

The next town lies nestled in the foothills of the Oghma Mountains, where autumn is less a suggestion and more of a requirement. That and, judging from the fleeting shadows of migrating wyverns wheeling overhead, it may already be well into Wyvern Moon.

Which makes sense, Annette thinks. She set out from Dominic in Horsebow Moon, intent on reaching Gloucester and wedding the count’s heir by Red Wolf Moon before the weather took a turn for the worse. It’s just her progress has been…delayed, to say the least.

And it’s cold. She shivers in the same dress she’s been wearing for days and huddles closer to the warmth Rhys emanates. She envies his and Felix’s (borrowed) priest’s robes, better suited for cooler weather than her dress.

Rhys obliges her with an arm around her shoulders, his other hand holding tight to the mule’s reins. “I wish I had a spare cloak,” he admits, squeezing slightly.

Annette leans into him and shrugs. “I’m all right,” she says. “Winters at home are colder than this.”

Nearby Felix scoffs, and when she glances at him he rolls his eyes. She scowls at him, but he only crosses his arms and looks ahead.

Rather than riding in the back of the wagon, he’s spent the last day walking alongside it, too restless to sit still (even when Annette offered the seat beside Rhys to him, when he rebuffed her and grumbled something about them looking _“awfully cozy already”_ ). He’s been in a foul mood too, or fouler than usual, and the more Annette tries to pull him into her and Rhys’ conversations, the more she regrets putting in the effort.

Right now, as they draw closer to the town’s gates - high to ward against Demonic Beasts that prowl the mountains since so many signposts along the road warn of them - Felix’s right hand rests on the hilt of his stolen sword and his left scrubs at his hair. She frowns, examining her handiwork yet again; she parted it differently and cut it at an angle to make it look _different_ , but she’s not sure if it frames his face…right.

His eyes flick to her, meeting hers for a heartbeat. Her cheeks warm and she glances away.

“What’s wrong?” he asks her. He pushes his bangs away from his face.

“Do you…like the haircut?” Annette wonders. She hates how tentative her voice sounds, but even with Felix - perhaps especially with Felix - she wants to know if she did a good job.

He smooths down his hair, his gaze sliding away from her as he mumbles, “It’s fine. You did a decent job.”

A smile stretches her lips; after over a week together, she’s learned that Felix is a man of understatement, which means that, despite his nearly woeful words, he paid her a compliment. “Really? You think so?”

“Yes,” he says. “Now will you stop asking me the same question?”

She flushes and fixes her gaze ahead, fidgeting with the strap on her bag sitting in her lap. “Right,” she says, “sorry.”

She feels Felix’s eyes on her again but can’t bring herself to even glance in his direction. “You’ve been holding onto that bag so tightly since we met,” he observes. “What do you have in it that’s so important?”

“Oh.” Annette clutches her bag closer, as if just talking about it risks its loss. “I just have my favorite book on Reason and a couple letters I need to save, like an introduction for Count Gloucester.” He doesn’t need to know the specificities of the other letter, or about her journal that’s mostly whatever song lyrics that pop into her head she deems worth remembering.

Felix snorts, a hint of a wry smirk playing about his lips. “No wonder those thugs wrote those off as worthless,” he says. “I doubt even that mage would’ve found a use for a spellbook on your level.”

Annette can’t help laughing, but then her mind loops his words over and—

Did Felix just…compliment her…on _purpose_?

Something in her chest loosens, a giddiness she hasn’t felt in ages filling her. “Well, I mean,” she fumbles for words, “it’s not that impressive of a text. It’s only supplementary for an intermediate theory of Reason course at the Royal School of Sorcery, so it’s—what’s so funny?”

Felix covers his mouth, though Annette couldn’t fail to miss his slight smile. He clears his throat and says, “Nothing, it’s just—nothing.”

Annette, her face warming all over again with embarrassment, is about to demand if he’s laughing at her when Rhys announces, “There are the gates! I consider it a success that we didn’t run into any Demonic Beasts on the way, I think.”

Annette flinches. He’d been so quiet the last few moments - and she focused so intently on Felix - she nearly forgot Rhys sat beside her.

It’s a welcome distraction. Thinking too much about Felix leaves her mind a jumbled mess of late, and she’d rather focus on the road and journey ahead of her and how to survive it than be bogged down trying to puzzle over his words, actions, and moods.

The town they approach claims independence from Empire, Kingdom, and Alliance alike, lying near the point where all three meet. According to Rhys, it’s mostly overseen by the Church and its Knights thanks to its proximity to their headquarters.

Church headquarters…he’s so close, Annette’s never been closer; he could be a mere day away if she travels through the mountain pass!

But she pushes the thought from her mind; she’s on a mission and they can’t afford any more detours, least of all selfish ones, and especially not when he can ignore her letter should she send it just as he’s ignored her for years.

“No one really wants this land anyway,” Rhys then admits with a wry smile. “The earth isn’t exactly fertile, and so many Beasts prowl the mountains, but it is a safe haven for anyone evading other authorities.” Something meaningful, almost suggestive, enters his eyes as they flick from Annette to Felix, but he doesn’t elaborate.

At the moment somewhere far from Empire and Kingdom authorities sounds perfect to Annette, and to Felix too she suspects. Security is fairly lax entering through the gates, but guards patrol along the wall, and a few more stand sentry at the gates themselves, bearing lances with wicked tips perfect for goring Demonic Beasts.

The walls cast deep shadows inside the town, cloaking them in darkness though it’s still daytime. Annette shivers at the sudden change in temperature, but Rhys can’t offer her his heat while he steers his wagon through narrow streets and around sharp corners.

Felix tenses walking alongside the wagon, and Annette wonders if he’s thinking of the last time they entered a town and how disastrous it was. She offers him a smile, hoping to reassure him that nothing like that will happen again, but he only frowns and avoids her gaze.

“Shall I drop you off at an inn?” Rhys wonders. “I’d offer you shelter at my church, but I’m afraid you’d find more comfort at an inn.”

“No,” Felix cuts in before Annette can reply. “We’ll go with you to the church and take directions to the inn, in case we’re being followed.”

“I see,” Rhys says, nodding; she wonders how he can trust them so easily, can accept that they don’t mean him any harm. “That’s fine, and it’s just as well since I can give you a parting gift.”

“Oh”—Annette raises her hands—”that’s not necessary, Rhys.”

“I insist,” he says with a warm smile. They round the last block past people of the town until he prods the mule into a side yard beside a simple church building. “I can offer spare clothes for the both of you - though I can’t promise they’ll fit well - and some funds for travelers, at least enough it can buy you a night at a decent inn.”

Annette hops down from the wagon, eager to stretch her legs and spine after so long seated, but Rhys’ offer catches her off-guard. Though he smiles so disarmingly, his words make shame twist in her gut that she would need to accept charity.

Felix grimaces. “That’s not—”

“Please.” Rhys takes Annette’s hands in both of his. “I don’t know the details of what’s befallen you, but you are both good people and as deserving of the goddess’ bounty as anyone.”

“But some people actually…need it more,” Annette mumbles, staring at their joined hands.

“Do you have any coin?” Rhys asks.

Felix’s face colors as he tears his eyes away from their hands. “No,” he admits. “It was stolen.”

“Then take my offer.” Rhys drops her hands and steps away towards a back door. “If you like, you can at least do me the favor of unharnessing Cloves; she’s probably had enough of that wagon for one journey.” With that he slips into the church through the door, leaving them alone - but for the mule - in the side yard.

Annette faces Felix, who’s already busied himself doing as Rhys asked. The mule snorts at him, so he offers it an awkward pat on the neck. Annette joins him, standing opposite from him, conscious that they haven’t been alone together so long as Rhys has traveled with them.

About two days, which she supposes isn’t _really_ that long to not have someone’s company entirely to herself, but after the week they’ve had, it feels like ages.

“So, um, what now?” she wonders, if only to break the silence.

Felix sighs. “We accept charity, apparently,” he grumbles, “but it won’t last us. We may have to stay here for a few days.”

“Why?”

“I’ll search for a job tonight or tomorrow,” Felix explains. “Something brief so I can make us some quick money, at least enough to see us to Gloucester.”

Yet more shame writhes in Annette’s abdomen. Would they have had to resort to this if she could’ve paid him? “That seems…prudent,” she offers for lack of anything better to say. “Felix, if I can help—”

“You’re not to blame,” he cuts her off before she can even finish her thought. She shoots a glare at him over the mule’s back, but his eyes linger on its harness as he removes it. “You hired me for a job, even if you haven’t paid me yet, and I intend to see it through.”

“By taking another job at the same time,” she mumbles under her breath.

“Jealous?” He snorts. “Don’t worry, I won’t accept anything that takes me too far away; I’ve already been a poor enough bodyguard.”

Annette opens her mouth to protest - how does he not realize she would’ve been dead several times over if not for him? - but Rhys returns bearing a cloth sack in one hand and a small coin purse in the other.

He offers Annette the sack. “You can change in the backroom,” he tells her.

Annette smiles, some part of her relieved she can finally wear something other than the same filthy dress after days…though she wishes she could bathe first.

Oh, well, one thing at a time, and she can take a bath at the inn when they finally arrive.

She leaves Rhys and Felix and enters the church. It’s a small building, but her footsteps still echo off the vaulted ceiling. She pads past empty pews and behind a pulpit, imagining it filled on a Saint’s Day while Rhys stands at the front addressing churchgoers and leading a hymnal.

Rhys has been so kind to them…maybe Annette should invite him to her wedding.

But the thought of her wedding sours her mood for a reason she can’t name, and she frowns at her reflection in a dulled mirror as she changes into clean underclothes and a dress.

It’s definitely a few years out of fashion, and she’ll have to find time to hem it a few inches _at least_ , but it still feels like donning new clothes for her birthday brunch.

When she returns outside, she finds Felix leaning against the wall, but he stands upon laying eyes on her. They search her face - did he expect her to encounter the assassin inside or something? - before he accepts the sack with his own clothes and steps past her inside without another word.

“He’s very protective,” Rhys observes.

Annette flinches - her thoughts keep drifting, intent as they are on Felix - and turns to face him. “Well, I did hire him as my bodyguard.”

Rhys hums and smiles almost indulgently, as if he doesn’t quite believe her. “Well, whatever the case,” he says, “it was an honor to call you sister, however temporarily.” He bows - Annette thinks he’s teasing her, but she can’t tell for sure.

She laughs, some remaining tension in her shoulders unraveling. “And you too,” she says. “I don’t have any siblings, so it was nice befriending you. And you’ve done so much for us, and we have no way to repay you.”

“Please,” he protests mildly, “how could anyone have seen the state you two were in and not been moved to help you?”

Annette clasps her hands behind her back, her lip between her teeth as she thinks of Miklan and Metodey. “I can think of at least a few people.”

Rhys sighs. “I’m sorry you’ve had encounters with them,” he says, “but I wish you all the best on the rest of your journey.”

“Yes.” In a fit of emotion at an impending parting, her chest overflowing with gratitude, she throws her arms around Rhys’ neck.

He tenses for a heartbeat, and she worries she’s overstepped a boundary, but then his arms wrap around her waist. He pats her back once and says, “Safe travels, and to you, Felix.”

As if caught with her hand hovering over the pastry tray before dinner, she jerks away from him and spins around to find Felix standing in the doorway with his arms crossed, his eyebrow raised and his lips twisted as if he smells something sour. Her heart skips a beat.

His donated shirt looks too tight about his shoulders but otherwise fits him well, and he’s already strapped on his sword belt. He shrugs into a coat, but by then Annette is well-aware she’s staring and tears her eyes away.

“Where’s the inn you mentioned?” Felix asks Rhys.

“Oh, it’s only a few blocks away,” he says. “It’s called the Red Wolf Inn and has a sign shaped like a wolf swinging from it.”

Felix nods in acknowledgment before offering a grudging, “Thank you, for…everything.”

Rhys grins. “Of course,” he says. “You take care of each other, all right?”

With that, they leave, though Annette can’t help looking over her shoulder and offering one last wave…more than once…until they’re back on the street out of Rhys’ sight and in search of the inn.

Felix tugs his coat hood up, though she doesn’t miss the sideways glance he shoots at her. “What?” she says, hackles raising.

“Aren’t you marrying soon?” he says.

That…is the last thing she expected him to ask. “Yes?” she says. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Then why were you and—” He cuts himself off with a growl and instead stares ahead. “Never mind; let’s just get to the inn. I’m hungry and we both smell terrible.”

Irritation flickers through her despite the truth in his words. “Wow,” Annette gripes, “how very kind of you to point that out, Felix.”

The Red Wolf Inn stands on a street corner with light spilling out of its windows though it’s still light outside. A wrought iron sign in the shape of a wolf howling at the silhouette of a moon swings with a creaking of chains in a barely discernible breeze above the door. Laughter and music drifts out when it swings open to admit someone.

The inn - like much of this town - seems untouched by any brewing hostilities, and certainly untouched by any misfortune that’s befallen her and Felix since they set out. Her heart burns with envy, but no small amount of relief that they may actually have a night of respite, of ease, washes over her.

“Be on your guard,” Felix warns Annette, almost as if he read her mind.

She rolls her eyes but, deep down, knows he’s right. Just because they haven’t seen either of their pursuers in a few days doesn’t mean they’ll spare them, even for a few days of rest.

And, as much as Annette longs to clean off the dirt of travel and knows she’ll pass out the instant she lies down, her mission still stands; she can’t afford to linger, not if she’s to keep her family safe.

Felix holds the door open for her, though he enters the inn ahead of her, his gaze discerning as he scans the entryway for nonexistent threats. She prods his back to get him to move, only for him to flinch and for his hand to land on the hilt of his sword.

“Felix,” Annette says with a sigh, “would you please relax at least until tomorrow morning?”

He narrows his eyes at her and makes a sour expression she takes to understand as _“I will not relax and neither should you”_ but he passes into the inn, sidestepping a couple of patrons on their way out the door, and approaches the innkeeper standing at their counter.

A flag emblazoned with the Crest of Seiros hangs from the wall behind him. Annette’s chest tightens, and her fingers reach for a pendant that no longer swings from her neck.

“Good afternoon,” the innkeeper greets them. “Welcome to—”

Felix smacks the counter, making Annette jump, and says, “We’ll take one room.”

One…room? She spins around to stare at him with wide eyes, her heart picking up its pace. “What?” she says. “ _One_ room?”

The innkeeper blinks at Felix - apparently without hearing Annette’s feeble retort - and his abrupt order, but then he plasters a pleasant smile onto his face and says, “Yes, of course, Sir and Madam. Let me check the availability.” He turns their back to them to consult a roster on a back counter.

Felix barely glances at her as he retorts, “We can’t afford not to share, Annette.”

“But it’s so improper,” she protests in a low voice so the innkeeper doesn’t hear.

He snorts. “You didn’t seem to mind when you thought you had to share a small tent with me,” he notes, “and wasn’t it just two days ago we slept in the same wagon?”

A livid blush heats her cheeks, and she tears her gaze away from him lest she find some hint of mockery to frustrate her more. “That was…different…we had no choice, and no one was around—”

“The priest was,” Felix says. His brow wrinkles, his lips twisting with a scowl. “You didn’t seem to care as much what he thought.”

“Felix,” Annette hisses.

“What?” He raises an eyebrow at her. “He thought we were married at first, didn’t he? It’s a convenient disguise for now, so it wouldn’t make sense to sleep in separate rooms anyway, not when, need I remind you, you hired me to protect you.”

Her hands curl into fists, but she’s spared - or loses - the opportunity to argue by the innkeeper facing them again. He slides an open ledger across the counter towards them and two keys on a ring. “Sign here,” he says, pointing to the next blank line on the ledger. “These are your keys; if you want a bath”—his nose wrinkles slightly, and Annette resists the urge to lift her arm for a sniff—”there’s a tub in your room. Just ask a maid and she’ll heat you water to fill it.”

Felix nods in acknowledgment and pays the requested amount out of the funds Rhys gave them…which left them with barely enough to buy a few days’ worth of travel rations. Her stomach turns with apprehension as he pockets the remaining coin.

She jumps when he rests a hand on the small of her back, heat spreading under her dress from that point of contact. She stares at Felix in bewilderment until, with a hint of red high in his cheeks, he lowers his hand and mumbles, “Sorry, I just…never mind.”

Why are her ears so hot? She covers them - not that anyone can see them through the curtain her hair provides - and walks towards the stairwell.

Felix follows close behind and says, “If it’s any consolation, I think the standard around here is two beds per room rather than one.”

“Oh, good!” Annette exclaims, but what she really means is _oh, good_ , because the very possibility of having to share a bed with him hadn’t even entered her head. And now that she’s thinking about it she very much wants to avoid that at all costs.

“Don’t worry,” Felix says, rolling his eyes, “I won’t tell your groom we shared a few rooms.”

This time Annette knows he’s teasing her, if only for the way his lips twitch. She climbs up the stairs a few paces behind him and mutters, “Villain.”

The room is, at least, more spacious than she expects, with two beds (as Felix promised), a trunk at the base of one, and a tub in the corner. And a window, which is an oddly welcome luxury despite spending so much time outside.

Annette drops her belongings on the trunk before approaching the window and pushing the curtains aside but the only view that greets her is the side of the inn’s neighboring tavern.

“You bathe first,” Felix tells her, drawing her attention back to him. “I’m going to ask around in the common room and any nearby taverns and see if anyone’s hiring.” He tugs the tie from his hair, letting the strands fall in a matted curtain that, somehow, reminds Annette of the grouchy tomcats that prowled the grounds of her uncle’s castle.

“Shouldn’t you bathe first then?” Annette wonders. “Does anyone want to hire a stinky sellsword with hair as dirty as yours?”

He glares at her, and for a heartbeat she worries she’s gone too far, but then he shrugs. “I don’t think sellswords are clean by reputation,” he says. He ties his hair back up in the exact same manner, scowling when he swipes at a few strands he missed. “Just take a bath. I’ll be back soon.”

“But, um…” She sits at the end of one of the beds and, to buy time until she collects what words she wants to say, starts unlacing her boots. For some reason she doesn’t want Felix to leave her alone again, least of all to find another job.

What if he likes the new one better and abandons her for it? She’s given him nothing but trouble.

Though part of her wonders if that would be for the best (for him), the prospect makes her heart sink into her stomach. “You said once that you don’t like bodyguard work,” Annette ventures, “and you don’t let Kingdom nobles hire you, so what kinds of jobs do you usually take?”

“Anything that might be a challenge to test my strength,” Felix replies so levelly she has no doubt he’s not joking regardless of how…ridiculous he sounds.

Then again, Annette can admit she likes a good challenge, even if she prefers them not to be life-threatening. “Like what? You can’t be more specific?”

He shrugs, though a thoughtful frown crosses his face. “I’ve been hired to fight Demonic Beasts, hunt bounties, and track down fugitives for a handful of Alliance nobles, but I’ll consider any job if I’m…needful enough.”

Needful, like they are now with so little coin.

Annette mulls over his words before blurting, “Wait, aren’t you a fugitive?”

Felix appraises her for a long heartbeat, while she holds her breath and begins to regret asking such a direct, piercing question when this…peace they’ve established between them feels so tentative. It’s one thing to call him a villain for teasing her, but another to pry into his past.

But he surprises her by admitting, “Not exactly, no.” He places his hand on the doorknob. “I’ll be leaving now. Try not to leave the room while I’m gone.”

Annette stands, her breath catching until she ekes out, “Wait, Felix.”

He freezes but looks over his shoulder at her. “What?”

He’s always so…abrupt and rough in manner, but he’s let her glimpse snatches of tenderness before. Now though there’s none of that, his posture that of a coiled spring compressed to its limit.

Annette swallows whatever else she might ask, about his family, his identity, his Crest, and offers him a smile she doesn’t quite feel. “Go safely,” she says. “I won’t be there to protect you should something happen.”

Felix scoffs, but when he turns away from her again she spies the slightest hint of a smile curving his lips.

* * *

This is the last potential employer he speaks to tonight, Felix decides as he watches the man sitting across from him drink deeper and deeper from an apparently never-ending tankard of ale. His own sits untouched on the table in front of him, and he’s of half a mind to offer it up to him in hopes of speeding up the conversation.

“I always treat potential hirelings,” the man - who introduced himself as a merchant by the name of Pallardo - said when Felix first refused. “Let’s sit and chat.”

So far, in Felix’s opinion, there’s been far too much sitting and chatting and none of it about the job except some hints about hunting Demonic Beasts to…harvest Crest Stones.

It sounds moderately suspicious and definitely something the Church, rich with influence in this town, would disapprove of, but right now he can’t bring himself to care about that while he and Annette are in need of coin.

Annette. He’s been away from her for far too long, and anything can happen to her in that time. Metodey can make his move, Miklan and his thugs can take her hostage, she can sneak off for a tryst with that priest—

“When’s the job?” Felix wonders as his thoughts take an unreasonable turn, not for the first time. Maybe he should try confiscating the man’s tankard instead.

“Tomorrow,” Pallardo answers far more easily than he expects. “Should be brief too, no more than two days. We’re chasing a wolf sighting nearby and doing the townspeople and mountain folk a favor, you see.”

Felix did see, but he’s not sure the greedy man trying to hire him does. He crosses his arms and nods. “How much will you pay?”

When Pallardo gives him the amount, it takes all of Felix’s well-honed control to keep the shock from his face. He’s fought Demonic Beasts for reasons of greed and protection before, but none of those jobs ever netted him so much so quickly.

Plenty to see both him and Annette all the way to Gloucester; they can sleep in an inn every night (provided they find one), though it’s probably not enough for them to rent two rooms.

“How…generous,” he says, unsure if he’s being sarcastic or not.

“Slaying these Beasts is worth more than that money,” Pallardo says. “I’ll harvest the ore it drops, enough to sell for a premium.” He offers Felix a grin and clanks his tankard against his, though it still sits on the table. “I’ll even throw in a sword for you to borrow on the job; yours doesn’t look so great.”

Despite his own disdain of the stolen sword, he rests a protective hand on its hilt. The offer is…tempting, and not just for the coin. But it requires leaving Annette for a day, perhaps longer, so he sighs and says, “I’ll have to think about it.”

Pallardo takes another swig of ale, a drop sliding down his chin when he lowers the tankard. “Think hard and think fast.” He points at Felix. “If you decide too late, I may already be gone.”

“I’ll return by midnight if I accept,” he promises before standing and making to leave the tavern.

It’s well after dark by now, but lanterns lining the street leave the town well-lit. Felix follows the short path back to the inn with its common room that’s no less noisy than the tavern he left behind.

He barely spares a glance for the bard with his lute and his companion fiddler, not even when a maid waves at him and says, “Come join us, Sir.”

Felix ignores her in favor of climbing the stairs back to his and Annette’s room, already fumbling for the key he tucked into his pocket. His heart races, a part of him anticipating what he’ll find, if he finds anything or anyone at all.

He freezes at the voice that drifts through the closed door.

 _“Tonight I scrub all this dirt off good, when I’m clean I help my mood. Soap and suds and water and sponge, that’s how I’ll take this bath all…_ good? No, that doesn’t rhyme with ‘sponge’…”

Water splashes from within, and Felix realizes he’s returned before Annette finished her bath. Though something in her nonsensical lyrics and cheerful voice calms him, his heartbeat doesn’t falter, despite knowing she must still be safe.

Felix leans against the wall beside the door, but she sings no more, her lyrics giving way to indistinct humming and more water trickling until silence fills the space between them. It’s not the first time he’s heard Annette sing, but every time he does it seems like something private, something she does only for herself with no willingness to share it with anyone.

Like she’s…ashamed or embarrassed.

It bothers Felix for a reason he can’t explain.

He sighs and, deciding he’s dawdled outside long enough, knocks on the door.

A sort of…stillness emanates from the room after he knocks. He stands stiffly, hand falling to his sword, only for Annette’s voice to call, “Who is it?”

He takes a bracing breath - not that he knows what he’s bracing himself for, exactly - and replies, “It’s me. I’m back with a few leads.”

Annette doesn’t leave him waiting for long. When the door swings open, she greets him with a smile that shoots warmth through his chest, her damp hair hanging loose to her shoulders and her face pink and shining. “I expected you to be gone longer,” she admits, a trace of worry in her eyes as she steps aside to let him in.

Felix enters, but even after she shuts and locks the door he can’t relax. “As I said, I found a few leads, but…I’m not sure which one to take, or if I should take any of them.”

“Um…why not?” Annette wonders. She sits on the end of one of the beds - the one she’s already claimed for herself, probably - combing her fingers through her wet hair while frowning at him.

He paces in the space the room allows him and rakes a hand through his hair. “They’re not…ideal for our situation,” he explains.

“Did you expect any to be?”

“No,” he admits, sighing. He faces her, resting his hands on his hips, and when her eyes flick up to meet his he glances away.

Why does looking at her now make his chest tighten?

“What kinds of jobs are they?” Annette asks.

“One merchant wanted to hire me to guard his merchandise _tonight_ ,” Felix tells her. He perches on the side of the other bed and leans towards her. “His offer for payment was higher than a job like that ought to net, probably because it was so urgent, but I rejected it.”

“Why?” She frowns, as if genuinely confused. “Don’t tell me you did it just because you’d find it boring.”

“We need coin badly enough I’d take a dull job,” he admits, “but that’s not why. Because I can’t leave you for a whole night?” he says, as if it’s obvious - because it _is_. It was nighttime both times Metodey attacked her, and only dumb luck Felix happened to be nearby the first time. And even if Annette can handle herself just fine while outdoors, casting spells grows riskier between walls and beneath a ceiling, which is to say nothing of if the assassin cuts her down before she realizes he’s there.

Felix has done a poor enough job protecting her while nearby; he’d do far worse to leave her alone for an entire night.

“It would just be a night,” Annette says.

“An assassin only needs a second to end your life,” he reminds her, his tone sharp. “What if he finds you while you’re sound asleep and I’m not here?”

She recoils, her eyebrows drawn and troubled, enough that he regrets his tone.

But he can’t apologize for it.

Then Annette says in a painfully small voice, “You wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore if you just…cut ties with me, Felix.”

“What?” His jaw drops as he stares at her. “Why would I do that?” But at the same time the question slips from his lips without a thought, the worry that she _would_ be better off if he does just that plagues him.

Felix doesn’t know what the right thing is anymore, not that he ever did. What is this all for anyway? He never really thought about what he would get out of it, but right now, after his failure at Miklan’s hands and his impotence while injured…well, that damn priest would have a better chance of escorting Annette safely to Gloucester.

Annette’s eyes slip shut, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap her knuckles turn white. “Maybe it’s only a matter of time before the assassin hurts you trying to get to me,” she says in a low voice. “And if I die, well, I won’t be able to hold up my end of our bargain any—”

Something…possesses Felix in that moment, something drives him to stand and resume his seat beside her, some red-hot impulse driven by anger and frustration and no small amount of desperation.

He grabs her chin and tilts her face towards his. Her eyes widen in shock when they meet his, color rising to her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away.

He almost wishes she would, but he needs her to understand something.

“Don’t insult my ability, Annette.” Felix is aware of his hypocrisy, as he grows more and more uncertain of himself since they set out, but regardless of Miklan and the threat he poses, he’s under no illusion that the instant it comes down to a real fight with Metodey, he’ll have the upper hand.

Annette’s lips part, and she says, “But what if—”

He shakes his head, inhaling and brushing his thumb along the smooth skin of her cheek. “He won’t hurt me,” Felix promises her, “so worry more about yourself.”

Her fingers close around his wrist, and he guesses she’s about to shove him off. His face warms when he recognizes what position they’re in, how close her face is to his, but…Annette doesn’t push him away.

His heart races as if he’s running into battle against a hundred Demonic Beasts, but he can’t bring himself to pull away from her.

Her eyes are such a deep blue in the light of the oil lamp resting on the bedside table, and he wonders—

They spring apart when a knock sounds from the door. “Ann?” a female voice calls from the hall. “I’ve brought water for your husband’s bath.”

Annette stares at her hands before standing and going to the door. Felix stands after her, his heartbeat too fast to allow him to rest, and wary of anything. He tries to even his breathing and smooth his hair in some effort to collect himself.

The maid - only a maid, he tells himself in a feeble effort to relieve the tension in his spine - brings bucket after bucket of hot water up to their room to fill the bathtub. In the meanwhile, Annette stands beside him, close enough their arms brush.

Felix stiffens when she touches his hand, but he doesn’t flinch. “What?” he asks, a rush of embarrassment keeping him from turning towards her.

“You, um, I…”

He sighs and pretends to be more interested in the toes of his boots than in their conversation. “Last time we discussed”—a generous word, since he remembers the dreadful quarrel despite being feverish during—”alternative arrangements, you had an idea. Do you have one this time?”

Annette sighs and confesses, “Sort of. We’re in Church lands, right? I thought maybe they could help me since my f—since they’re more neutral than Count Rowe.”

“They’re not nearly as neutral as they claim,” he retorts. “The Knights of Seiros aren’t exactly welcome in Empire territory, so they’d consider an escort of them an invasion. We’d stand out.”

Her ears redden, and she admits, “I know, but…I’ve been so much trouble to you. Why do you still bother with me? You could be making money, but instead I’m costing you time and coin.”

Felix reaches for her hand only to stop and curl his fingers into a fist instead. Frustration thrums through him, and he tightens his jaw, at a loss for how to explain it to her when he barely understands it for himself. “I never like leaving a job unfinished,” he settles on telling her, though it tastes like an untruth as it leaves his tongue.

Annette frowns, as if unconvinced, but she says, “If you say so.”

“Then are you ready to trust me again?” he asks her.

His stomach flips with apprehension, but she doesn’t keep him waiting long for an answer. She nods - he’s half-convinced she should’ve shaken her head instead - and offers a slight smile. “All right,” she says. “For now, until you do something truly evil, I will continue to employ you as my escort.”

Felix, cheered by her acceptance despite himself, can’t help retorting, “You’ve yet to pay me.”

She scowls, and the normality of that alone eases the tension in his body. “If you’re not leaving, then stop holding that against me!” she exclaims. “Besides, you only told me about one of your leads. Didn’t you find others?”

The door clicks shut behind the maid - they both jump; Felix forgot she was even there - as he mulls over his words. “I did,” he says, “but it’s probably worse than the first one.”

“Tell me anyway,” Annette prompts, her gaze open and curious.

“It’s a hunt for a Demonic Beast that’s been prowling a nearby pass,” he explains. He rubs his eyes, sore and burning with tiredness, but he can’t rest yet. “The man who offered it said it might take up to two days, and if I can’t leave you for a night I definitely can’t for two days.”

Still Annette frowns, her furrowed brow making her look deep in thought. “Maybe…”

“What?” he asks when she trails off into silence.

“Well, um, I can’t promise that you’ll like this idea,” Annette admits with a sheepish frown, “but what if you accept the Demonic Beast hunt job and we take it on…together?”

“Absolutely not,” Felix says immediately, shaking his head vigorously. “Have you ever even fought a Demonic Beast?”

She rests her hands on her hips and sticks her nose up. “I have actually,” she says. “Why do you think my uncle bothered paying my tuition for the Royal School of Sorcery if not to learn to fight Demonic Beasts to better protect his territory?”

Not for the first time Felix wonders why in the name of the Four Saints Annette’s uncle is foolish enough to waste his niece’s skills on wedding some noble brat on the opposite side of the continent, yet he still hesitates to agree to her proposition.

He’s seen her in combat firsthand - thanks to his own inability to protect her - but the idea of willingly taking her into a dangerous situation leaves him with a heavy knot of dread in his stomach.

“Felix,” she says when his silence wears on for too long, “we need the money, and if you’re so unwilling to leave me alone, then there’s nothing to stop you from taking me with you.”

Felix grimaces, but he knows - though he hates it - that she has a point. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll accept the job for the hunt.” He turns to leave, as he should have another hour or so before Pallardo’s offer expires, but freezes when Annette grabs his wrist. “What?”

“At least take a bath first?” she suggests, nodding towards the full tub with thin tendrils of steam drifting from its surface. “If you wait till you come back, the water will have gone cold.”

“Fine,” he says, if only because Annette has a point. He unbuckles his sword belt, but a motion at the corner of his eye catches his attention.

When he spins around, Annette is halfway out the doorway. “Where are you going?” he demands.

“The common room?” she says, her eyebrows knit together in confusion. She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t planning on leaving the inn or falling asleep where someone can murder me, Felix.”

“I know, but you should stay—”

Her face flushes all the way to her hairline, vivid pink disappearing into orange. “W-what?” she stutters. “You’re about to _bathe_! Would you—would you rather I stay while you do?”

His jaw drops, and he covers his own warming face and says, “N-no, I…never mind.” He waves her away. “Just don’t leave the inn and come for me if anything happens.”

“So you can charge an assassin while you’re n—soaking wet?”

Felix feels as if he’s about to choke on the air sticking in his throat. “I’d make a point to at least put on a coat,” he promises her. “Just, um, just go so I can get on with it.”

She leaves, but not without shooting him one last glance he doesn’t know how to read. When he shuts the door behind her he can’t help staring at it for a beat longer while a fist reaches through his chest and squeezes his heart.

He undresses in a hurry, eager to wash away the trials of the last week, and wary of the deadline Pallardo imposed on him.

While he bathes, Felix tries to push the feeling of Annette’s skin under his fingertips from his mind just like he tries to scrub it away with soap, but it lingers like the ghost of her grasp on his wrist and her voice in his thoughts.

* * *

The third time Annette nearly collides with a maid or inn patron on her way downstairs she decides that there’s something more than her natural clumsiness at play. Her ankle is perfectly fine with nary a hint of an ache or swelling, and she’s not so tired that she’s lost all sense of balance, yet when she rounds the corner out of the stairwell and runs headlong into the innkeeper, she cries out with frustration, “What’s _wrong_ with me?”

She rubs her head, sure she’ll have a bruise to show for it by morning, and sighs.

It’s all Felix’s fault. Her mind keeps looping back to that moment he grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him and how, despite his sudden proximity and her heart skipping a beat in alarm, she had no desire to pull away.

His words linger too, not quite reassuring but no more disheartening. Sometimes she fears how little she knows of him while she’s practically an open book, yet she trusts him.

Not that she has much of a choice. He’ll stay with her, she tries to convince herself as surely as he tried to convince her. She wants so badly to believe him - she doesn’t know if she’s ever wanted anything so badly in her life - but doubt still niggles at her and sours every promise he makes and assurance she accepts.

The innkeeper’s hand on her shoulder jerks Annette from her thoughts. “Madam,” he says when she glances at him, “are you all right? I haven’t seen you or your husband in the common room looking to eat tonight.”

Annette smiles at him and offers a curtsy, something quick and shallow that won’t upend her and might even make her uncle express some stony approval if he could see it. “Everything is great,” she says. “We’ll eat soon, I think we were both just eager for baths after so long traveling.”

“Of course, of course,” says the innkeeper, a knowing glint in his eye. “Where is your…charming husband anyway?”

She stifles a giggle at his hesitance to call Felix _charming_. “It’s his turn with hot water,” she replies. “I just came down because I wanted to stretch my legs and sit in the common room with some music.”

“You didn’t wish to wait for your husband?”

Annette’s smile strains the more the innkeeper insists on calling Felix her husband, because he most certainly is not, and never mind that every mention of the word reminds her that she has a husband in her future, and it’s not Felix.

Why does her…chest tighten at that thought?

“He’s not one for music, I’m afraid,” she tells the innkeeper, irritation filling her anew as she recalls when Felix teased her about her singing.

(She does not think about Felix, feverish and delirious, asking her to sing instead.)

“That’s too bad,” says the innkeeper, “but do tell me if there’s anything else I can do for you two.” He pats her on the shoulder, a gesture somehow both stiff and affectionate that reminds her of her uncle at his most indulgent, and makes to walk around her to the entryway.

And then…Annette has an idea.

“Actually,” she says, spinning around to face him again, “do you have ink and a quill you can spare for the night?”

It’s time, she decides, to finally finish and send the letter she’s been carrying to her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll go ahead and assure you right now that Gilbert will not be making an appearance in this fic, quite simply because I didn't want to write about him. Such is life i guess
> 
> Also i swear "there was only one bed" will be a component, i just will not say when ~~unless you ask nicely because i'm a sucker~~ >:)


	6. hope they haven't found their mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The real monsters were the friends we met along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a me fic until they fight a Demonic Beast or two ~~the fact that i posted one in a different fic less than a week ago is a coincidence~~ ;)
> 
> Also warning for a mildly disturbing nightmare sequence? It's not violent or anything, but it might be a little frightening/dizzying

Felix is a light sleeper almost as a rule so the slightest noise can wake him, but after returning from the tavern with a borrowed sword that feels awkward in his hands (but far more comfortable than the one he stole from the assassin) and with orders to meet Pallardo by sunrise and assuring himself that Annette already slept soundly, he collapses into bed without undressing (except to tug off his boots and belt) and finds oblivion the instant his head hits the pillow.

He wakes to a cheerful tune, which isn’t altogether an awful way to wake, but it startles him enough he freezes in place before recognizing the voice as Annette’s:

_“Swamp beasties creeping through the dark, hope they haven’t found their mark. I’ll blast a spell right through their face, and then I’ll be the one who wins the—”_

“Morning.” He sits up and blinks the heaviness of sleep from his eyes, an ache in his head making him feel sluggish. But he sees the instant Annette jumps - so _jumpy_ , her thoughts occupy her so intensely he might find it amusing - and spins around to stare at him.

Or, well, glare at him. “Were you eavesdropping on me?” she demands.

Felix sighs but swings his legs over the bed, rubbing at his neck. “We’re in the same room,” he says. “I’m not sure how I can avoid ‘eavesdropping’, especially while you’re singing about…swamp beasties? You know we’re going into the mountains today, right?”

He’s rewarded with her face turning a vibrant shade of red, but he can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or angry until she flings something at him and grouses, “It’s just a silly song, Felix, so you don’t have to be mean about it!”

A frown prods at his lips as he catches what she threw - a…hairbrush? - and turns it in his hands. “I wasn’t trying to be mean,” he says.

“Well, you succeeded anyway,” Annette complains. She snatches back her hairbrush and resumes brushing out her hair.

Felix watches her, for a moment unsure what to do with himself. He slept in his only change of clothes - he’ll have to smooth out the wrinkles if he wants to look anything verging on presentable, not that it matters much - and the only _really_ pressing task he has right now is a visit to the water closet. But his hands itch while Annette works, his eyes flicking to the brush in hers, and he wonders if she needs h—

He doesn’t wonder.

“I’ll be back,” he tells her, and slips into the hallway before she can ask where he’s off to. Outside he leans against the wall and buries his face in his hands and he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him but he’s not sure he _dis_ likes it.

Felix returns after a few moments spent collecting himself and his nerve for the day’s job. Annette waits for him, sitting almost primly with her omnipresent bag slung over her shoulder and an inkwell and quill clutched loosely in her hands.

“Were you writing something?” he asks.

Her eyes drift to her feet, her hand resting on her bag almost protectively, but she says, “Yes, I was, and what of it?”

“Nothing, just…was it a letter?” He can’t keep the wariness from his voice, something anxious stirring in his belly. “You didn’t already post it, did you? We can be tracked if—”

“No, I’m not that stupid,” Annette cuts him off. She rolls her eyes and stands, smoothing out the wrinkles in her skirt before walking past him to the door. “I’ll post it right before we leave.”

“That’s still risky,” he warns her. “We already know we’re being followed, so why do we need to confirm where we’ve been?”

“The Empire already knows where we’re _going_ , Felix,” Annette retorts with a sigh. “It would be easy enough for the assassin to just wait for us somewhere along our path.”

He grits his teeth, hating the truth that echoes in her words, how _sensible_ yet horrible they are. Maybe the reason they’ve had a few days of peace is simply because the assassin lies in wait at the Bridge of Myrrdin or even as far as Gloucester itself.

He hates feeling powerless to put a stop to it most of all.

“Well, we can’t do anything about him now,” Annette says, tearing him from his gloomy, spiraling thoughts, “so let’s go slay a Demonic Beast instead.”

“Don’t you mean a swamp—”

“Shut up.”

They meet Pallardo and a few of his “crew” at the town’s northernmost gates as the sun’s rays breach the mountains and the people of the town stir and begin the day’s business. Felix is eager to escape its walls even if it means a long trek before they come across their quarry, his blood humming with the anticipation of a fight and a nervous energy foreign to him.

“Oh,” Pallardo says by way of greeting when he and Annette approach together, “you brought a friend.” He frowns at her, an eyebrow raised in what Felix can only call skepticism, and adds, “Are you sure she—”

“She’s a skilled mage,” he cuts him off before he can say something that irritates him. “If you have a problem with her, we’ll both leave.”

Pallardo shrugs but says, “All right, but I won’t lose sleep if she gets herself hurt.”

Felix glances at Annette when his stomach does another flip, only to find her staring at him with wide eyes. “What?” he says, confused.

She tears her gaze away from him, a hint of pink high in her cheeks - is she cold? There is an autumn bite to the mountain winds this morning - as she replies, “N-nothing, you just surprised me, that’s all.”

They set out along a narrow road that steadily increases in elevation. The mountain to their right casts deep shadows across the path, and at the left the road drops off into a ravine littered with scraggly bushes and evergreens sprouting between the rocks.

Pallardo drives a wagon pulled by two mules, a pair of men armed with crossbows walking alongside it. They scan the skies as much as they do the road and slopes, and Felix wonders if they’re warier of thieves or of beasts.

A great shadow glides across the ground, and both bowmen jump and angle their crossbows skyward only to realize it belongs to a wyvern flying south.

Felix loosens his own grip on his sword and inhales deeply to ease the tension in his body. He’s not usually so nervous with an impending fight, drawing confidence from every past experience he survived, but something about today feels…different.

“Hey, Felix,” Annette says. They walk together a little ahead of the wagon, far enough they can converse quietly without fear of being overheard but not so distant Pallardo and his men lose sight of them when the road curves around a mountain.

“What’s wrong?” he asks her without looking in her direction. The hair on the back of his neck prickles, the air taking on an eerie stillness without the chirping of birds hidden by tree branches.

“I don’t know,” she admits. Pebbles shift under their feet and under the wagon wheels, and when Annette trips over one his hand closes around her elbow on reflex. “It just feels…the wind is _too_ still. It feels unnatural.”

She senses it too; he wonders if it’s a characteristic of mages with an affinity for wind.

Felix scans the slopes, his pulse racing with a familiar urgency. “Annette—”

A low growl cuts through the silence before a boulder launches up from the ravine. His heart jumps into his throat as he shoves Annette out of its path. It breaks into pieces and rains dust when it collides with the opposite slope, but Felix pays it no mind.

Sword slides smoothly from scabbard as a giant wolf pounces. It bares its teeth in an ugly, predatory snarl, rancid breath spilling from its snout and smoke curling from its nostrils. A Crest Stone embedded in its forehead emits a faint glow, pulsing in time with its breathing.

“Halt!” Felix calls out to Pallardo and his men, but when he glances backwards and finds them nowhere in sight he realizes he needn’t have bothered.

Cowards, he thinks, but if they had the nerve to fight Demonic Beasts they never would’ve hired him to do it for them.

He swipes at the Beast’s snout to test it. It recoils, the ground trembling beneath its feet, and snaps at him. He steps away from its jaws, wary of keeping the mountain from his back lest it corner him, and dodges another boulder it throws up with its paws.

His hair and coat stir the same instant a glyph ignites, and when Wind breaks against the wolf’s flank and forces it backwards, a smirk curls his lips.

But it recovers its footing easily, and it turns away from him to level its malevolent red eyes at Annette.

The Beast’s Crest Stone flares the instant she blasts it with a wind so powerful Felix stumbles back a few paces from the force of it. He grits his teeth against it, his eyes pinched shut when dust flies into them.

The Beast stands its ground and stalks Annette as her spell disperses. Sweat beads down her face, her lips parted with the effort of drawing breath, and his stomach gives an unpleasant lurch at the realization that she may not have another spell like that in her.

His heart seizes in escalating alarm. Felix runs towards her, his mouth shaping her name, his legs not quite there, not quite fast enough, not _there_ , not—

The Demonic Beast lobs another boulder. When it breaks apart into rubble against the side of the mountain, its pieces crash down on Annette.

She tries to shield her head with her arms but crumples to the ground when a rock strikes her temple.

Renewed energy courses through Felix, spurring him faster as he grips his sword with both hands and strikes out at the Beast’s throat. His Crest glows bright and brilliant, filling him with a surge of strength, and his blow strikes true.

Smoke spurts from the wound, thick and acrid enough to bring tears to his eyes. The wolf whimpers pathetically, in that moment less like a monster and more like a dog, but swipes at Felix with a paw.

It costs no effort to bat it away with his sword, though his guard doesn’t falter for a second as the wolf disintegrates into dust and billows into smoke, its Crest Stone falling to the ground and flickering red one last time before dimming.

He barely registers any of that. His sword slips from his sweaty grip as he runs to Annette, heart still racing though the battle is past. But rather than the usual flush that comes with victory, with survival, the only thing gripping him is the panic rising in his throat.

“No, no, no,” Felix recites like a mantra. He kneels beside her, heedless of the sharp scraps of stone digging into his flesh through his trousers, heedless of any sensation that isn’t Annette.

Hesitant to move her, he leans down instead and presses his ear against her chest, holding his breath until—

Her heart beats, slow but steady and strong, and when Felix raises his head he’s so relieved a bark of bitter laughter bursts from him.

It fades fast. A few cuts mar her pale skin, blood pooling at the corner of one over her eye. Felix searches her head for a wound, keeping his touch light, only for him to freeze when her eyelashes brush his palm.

Annette’s eyes flutter open. His breath catches when they land on his face, and he says in a croaking voice, “Annette?”

“Felix…” she mumbles, her voice low and weak.

Her hand catches his, and if only to ground himself and keep his mind here rather than spinning backwards towards a time he wants nothing more than to forget, he squeezes her fingers. “Y-you let yourself get cornered,” he chides her, because he doesn’t know what else to do or say. “Don’t you know better than to not—”

The way her brow furrows makes him bite his tongue, and then she says the last thing he expected.

“…Fraldarius.”

* * *

Annette can’t keep her eyes open. She gave up trying to keep her head up after something… _struck_ her, after pain blossomed behind her temple and her legs buckled beneath her and she fell what seemed a great distance.

Felix’s face swims above her, his eyes wide and…panicked. She opens her mouth to tell him something, something _important_ , she can’t remember what was so important it distracted her from the Demonic Beast, but she’s saying it and her lips are clumsy shaping the word and her ears ring so loudly she can’t hear her own voice.

She can hear Felix’s, though she can’t discern any of the words. He raises his head and shouts something, and then his arms slip under her and her head spins and her body aches and a weight tries to drag her eyelids shut.

She lets it.

Something rocks beneath her, and creaking meets her ears. She overhears snatches of conversation, laughter exchanged between men, one voice that’s only barely familiar rising to tell a joke.

She lies in a wagon. Annette _knows_ she lies in a wagon as surely as she knows how to cast a Wind spell without reciting the proof. Her heart seizes in her chest, panic filling her until she screams.

She can’t scream. Her lungs and mouth refuse to obey her - or, rather, refuse to let her make a fool of herself by screaming her head off. She fights to lift her head, fights to separate her bound arms, but only succeeds in whimpering.

Miklan. Miklan caught up to them. Any moment she’ll open her eyes to a new nightmare, to the sight of Felix with Miklan’s ax crushing his shoulder, his howl of pain a heartbeat behind like the thunder that comes after the lightning during a storm. The mage will Silence her again before his twitching fingers yank her father’s necklace from her neck before they grab for her hair instead and—

A hand closes around Annette’s ankle, and a voice streams in through the river of blood deadening her ears, “…move her?”

“ _Don_ _’t_ touch her,” a harsher one hisses.

“Hey, relax!” another man says. “He’s only trying to—”

“You’ve done enough,” says…Felix? It’s so hard for Annette to think, to follow, but the wagon’s since halted. “Just take your damn Crest Stone and leave us.”

“All right, all right,” cajoles the stranger. “Here’s your earnings for the job. You’re lucky I don’t cut them for having a bad temper.” Coin exchanges hands with a series of high clinks.

Felix doesn’t retort, and even if Annette can’t think clearly she doesn’t understand why.

She tries again to open her eyes, but this time what she sees makes no sense either. There’s his face again, hovering over her, his brow furrowed and lips drawn into a frown. His hand - rough with calluses but warm - brushes her hair away from her face before he swipes at her forehead with his sleeve.

She hums and, maybe she mumbles something faintly under her breath, or maybe she doesn’t, but Felix’s eyes widen for an instant before he picks her up.

Her eyes slide shut again as she settles against his chest. Her head lolls, bouncing, but the ride is steadier than the wagon, and she no longer fears that next time she opens her eyes it’ll be to Miklan.

“…on, Annette,” Felix mutters, low and urgent. “Stay here, stay…”

She wants to tell him she’s not going anywhere - where else is there when his arms are strong and safe? - but her lips don’t move and everything fades away again.

_“You must not fail…”_

Her uncle’s voice echoes as if from far away, all the way in Dominic, or like it does in the cathedral when he gives his customary speech on Saint Days. Fail what? Annette wants to ask. Her uncle gave her an important task, one he swore he couldn’t entrust to anyone else, and she wants - no, _needs_ \- to complete it, as perfectly as possible, but if she can’t remember the task, how can she?

Ashe presses a letter into her hands, his eyes sad and urgent before an arrow pierces his neck and they widen and lose any trace of their luster, that light that shone in them when he spoke of knighthood.

Her father smiles his slight, rare smile, the one she always longs to see shining at her for something she accomplished, as he hooks the chain around her neck and clasps it with deft fingers. _“I’ll return soon,”_ he says before he kisses her forehead and embraces her mother. _“Maybe when I return, we’ll leave Fhirdiad and go on a holiday…”_

Annette thrashes and reaches for the pendant dangling from her neck but finds nothing, just like the last thousand times she tried. Voices filter in through her dreams, through the nightmares, through the memories she can’t leave behind, half-remembered but oh so important.

“…all right, Felix,” someone says, low and soothing. “…needs sleep to mend.”

“She was struck on the _head_ ,” Felix retorts. Something - the floorboards? - creak as someone moves across them before the bed - when did Annette lie in a bed? - sinks beneath her. Something featherlight swipes under her eye, and he murmurs, “I never should’ve…”

She doesn’t hear what Felix never should’ve done.

Other memories trickle in, slipping through her mind faster than she can grasp a single one. Mercie smiles at her from the opposite side of a table over tea between classes, Ashe sweats over an open arithmetic text while she guides him through a simple algorithm, her uncle buries his face in his hands before asking her to stoke the fire while he pens a letter, her mother stares, dead-eyed, out of her bedroom window until Annette finally convinces her to go on a walk with her, Felix grabs her chin and forces her to look at him, his touch burning through her skin as if to sear her soul…

His face fades away until she stands in an empty cathedral, its high ceiling melting into shadows and her footsteps echoing as she walks down the aisle between vacant pews, alone. A tall, lone figure waits before the pulpit, and as Annette draws closer she recognizes the Crest of Gloucester picked out in violet thread in the collar of a man’s doublet.

Her breath catches as she faces her groom.

A bridal veil conceals his face, the slightest pucker at the center where his nose should be. Her heart weighs down her chest like a stone falling through tar, but she needs to accomplish this simplest of tasks her uncle gave her. Everyone in Dominic is counting on _Annette_.

She lifts her leaden arms and reaches for the hem of her groom’s veil.

Metodey smiles at her, his eyes bright and crazed and his teeth stained with blood. He raises a dagger at the same time Annette jumps backwards, her heart racing as she reaches for her magic and finds—

Nothing. Not even the dam that would greet her upon being Silenced lies there.

She turns to run, her last option fleeing, but her legs tangle in the voluminous skirts of her bridal gown and she falls until her palms and knees hit the hard floor. A sob wracks its way out of her, fear thick in her throat, right as a cold hand closes around her ankle and drags her backwards along the dusty ground.

She opens her mouth to scream, “F—”

Annette opens her eyes, her sight…clear. She blinks furiously a few times, wondering if she’s woken to another nightmare or another memory, because her head clears enough for her to recognize that _everything_ since the Demonic Beast was a nightmare.

(Would that it was a nightmare too.)

She lies in a warm bed, her head propped up on more pillows than she usually sleeps with, and after blinking a few more times her gaze finds Felix on the opposite bed, leaning forward with his face buried in his hands.

Her hand, lying cold on the blankets, curls into a fist, and, for some bizarre reason, disappointment coils in her gut.

“F-Felix?” she tries, her voice a rasp from disuse.

He stands the instant he hears her name before bolting across the room. “You’re awake,” he says. “Finally, you’re awake. I’m…” His hand ghosts over her arm before he rakes his fingers through his hair.

It hangs loosely to his shoulders, which…surprises Annette, so naturally she blurts, “Why is your hair down?”

He frowns, his hand still on his head, and says, “You’ve been asleep for most of the day and night and that’s the first thing you say?”

“The first thing I said was your name,” Annette notes in a perfectly reasonable tone, “or, well…”

Everything rushes back to her.

“Felix…Fraldarius,” she says, the shock of the realization gripping her anew. “That’s who you are.”

His whole posture changes, his shoulders rising and his hands tightening into fists at his sides, but his expression stays flat, level, as if he feigns nonchalance.

Annette wonders if she should drop it, let him have his secrets if he refuses to talk about them, especially since dread ties her stomach into a series of knots she doesn’t know how to untangle.

Yet she admits, “Even in Dominic we heard rumors about Duke Fraldarius’ son disappearing as soon as he came of age. My uncle once speculated that he’d died in some cowardly way so the Duke lied about it so he wouldn’t lose face.”

Felix’s eyebrows twitch, but otherwise nothing in his face shifts. It’s so _unnerving_ , especially when Annette only now started to learn what his expressions mean. “That sounds like…something my old man would do,” he mumbles under his breath.

“I always thought that was stupid,” Annette says. For some foolish, childish reason, heat pricks at her eyes. “I always thought…running away was more cowardly.”

He flinches, but at last he does something other than stare past her impassively; he _scowls_. “What would you know?” he demands. “I bet you’ve always done exactly as everyone expected of you whether you wanted to or not.”

His words are an insult, a slap across the face and a kick to the gut at the same time. She swallows around the lump in her throat before snapping, “And I bet you never have.”

Felix glares at her, and there’s something different in it from how he usually might. Then it never felt serious, like he was only ever irritated or annoyed rather than…angry, like he is now. “You don’t know anything about me, Miss Dominic,” he says, voice as harsh as if he speaks to an enemy rather than to…her.

(She never knew that he spoke almost… _kindly_ to her until he stops.)

“Then _tell_ me,” she retorts, because isn’t it obvious? Maybe keeping secrets comes naturally to him, and maybe he does it for survival since everyone from Miklan to the Empire would want to get their hands on the son of one of the most powerful noblemen in Fodlan, but why is he keeping things from _her_?

“Fine.” He paces the room, as restless as a caged animal, and all but rants, “I wanted to…escape and do something with myself that wouldn’t bore me to tears or where no one would look at me and see my dead brother or tell me I have to die like him for my life to matter or—” He cuts himself off with a frustrated hiss before padding to the door.

Annette, sitting stock-still, his words leaving her stunned, watches him with alarm. “Wh—Felix?” she calls. Her heart squeezes in her chest for a different reason than before, overwhelming the anger that built in her blood in favor of the fear gripping her all over again. “Where are you—where are you going?”

“Nowhere—nothing—just—” Felix leans forward against the door, his forehead hitting it with a dull thud before turning and sliding down to sit on the floor with his back to it. His arm shields the back of his head, as if he expects a killing blow from an enemy’s blade.

She jumps out of bed, her head spinning at a sudden wave of dizziness before she recovers her balance. Her fear evaporates till all that’s left is her own frustration, while she replays Felix’s words in her mind again and again and—

Objectively she knows he’s in some kind of pain, and maybe if she wasn’t so… _angry_ she could take a deep breath and collect herself. But his self-professed motivation makes that so difficult, and she can’t wrap her mind around the fact that he ran away from his home and family because he was _bored_.

“Abandoning your family…that was selfish of you.”

Felix looks up at her and, to her surprise, sighs before his eyes slip shut, as if he spent all his own fury. “Maybe it was,” he agrees, “but you’ve no right to judge me for it.”

Annette frowns, but for once any words she can possibly say stick in her throat. She just hurts and doesn’t know how to make it better, for herself or for Felix, so she tears her eyes away from him so he won’t see her wipe her tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ha. ha. yeah this was painful to write for more than one reason BUT next chapter is very exciting for some other reasons ~~none of which is that i literally throw canon geography of Fodlan out of a very very very high window~~


	7. he's a mean one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a long way left to Gloucester when your travel companion's words cut deeper than a dagger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah this chapter. I so looked forward to this chapter while i was writing, and I very much looked forward to sharing it, so I hope you will enjoy it too >:)
> 
> ...just don't think too hard about the geography, i'm begging you

Felix stares down the blade, inspecting the steel with a critical eye. He gives it a few experimental swipes, feeling how it balances in his hand first and how clumsy the guard is in comparison. It whistles through the hot, dense air in the smithy’s shop as he swings it at an unadorned shield hanging from the wall.

A shock travels up his arm, but not one he can’t bear. He tries again, this time aiming for an effigy lined up nearby.

The sword slips through the armor it wears and slices through fabric with little resistance. Felix retracts it and lowers it, his heart pounding with the exercise if not from the activity, but when he turns to the expectant swordsmith he nods, satisfied.

“It’s fair,” he says. He slides it back into its scabbard and gives it over to the smith for him to wrap - though he’ll certainly unwrap it the instant he exits the shop so he can hang it from his belt, where it belongs.

Felix wishes he had the time to order a custom blade, especially since Pallardo’s job netted him enough to replace the old one he lost to Miklan, but he plans to set out from this foothill town by midday. But a sellsword lives and dies by his blade, so he had to shill out the coin to buy one that, in his skilled hands, can keep him alive.

And…Annette.

He’s left her alone for all of an hour, but worry still gnaws at his stomach. He just… _needed_ the distance for which shopping for a sword gave him an excuse, but if the assassin finds her now after he failed to protect her _again_ , he’ll—

It doesn’t matter, Felix tells himself. He won’t make the mistake of deliberately putting Annette in danger again.

After paying the smith, he slips out of the smithy to finish his errands. A new tote bounces against his back, full of supplies to continue their journey, including a tent to replace the old one he lost, a couple of simple knives, travel rations in the form of dried meat and fruit (for Annette since she complained about the jerky he preferred), a map, and a roll of bandages with a healing salve for burns and inflammation. They’d pick up a few other essentials on their way out of town, since the last thing Felix wants is to choose spare clothes Annette won’t like.

Well, one of the last things, but he forces his feet to keep walking past the inn, intent on one final visit.

The Crest of Seiros emblazons the door of his destination. Felix curls his fingers into a tight fist, grimacing, before he nudges the door open and steps inside. Between services it lies as empty as the hour he first set foot in it, except for the movement he spies at the front.

The priest - Rhys - stands on the altar at the back, rifling through a book of hymns and humming to himself. The sound is almost offensive compared to Annette’s singing, but Felix doesn’t want to think of her right now.

(He _doesn_ _’t_.)

His footsteps echo off the vaulted ceiling and light streams in through the stained glass window of the goddess behind Rhys, igniting the church in colorful light that someone more sentimental or more religious than Felix might find pretty.

(Is Annette religious? She’s certainly sentimental considering how she clutched her father’s necklace before she…lost it.)

Rhys glances up on his approach, his eyes widening when they land on him. “Good morning, Felix,” he greets him. “What brings you here?”

“I…” He knows why he’s here, but seeing Rhys makes something unpleasant writhe in his abdomen. The memory of his arm around Annette’s shoulders while she leaned into him flickers through his mind, but he shoves it away in favor of offering the coin purse he gave them as “charity for travelers” upon their arrival.

“Here,” he says. “We made some coin while we were in town.”

Rhys stares at the coin purse, understanding in his eyes. “The coin I gave you wasn’t a loan,” he says.

“Take it,” Felix insists. “I made more than enough to see us to our destination.”

“What if some of it gets stolen again?” Rhys asks.

“Then I’ll make more,” he says, frowning. “It’s not so difficult to find work as a sellsword these days.”

“That’s a pity,” the priest says, and normally Felix might bristle at someone implying he doesn’t deserve to work, to do what he’s good at, but something in his voice makes him lower his arm.

“Why won’t you take it?” Felix wonders. “You went out of your way to help us and gave us church charity.” The irony that he and Annette are _both_ of noble birth isn’t lost on him, but Rhys doesn’t need to know.

“The church doesn’t give out loans without the signing of a repayment contract either,” Rhys says far too reasonably.

Felix grits his teeth, frustration mounting, but says, “Then consider this payment for healing Annette yesterday.”

“Church priests don’t accept payment for healing the wounded.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, a sigh escaping through his nose, before he waves the coin purse in Rhys’ face. “Just take the damn purse,” he grouses, though he doubts his new tone is any degree of persuasive.

Rhys’ eyes flick around before they land on his face again. “The church always accepts donations,” he offers.

Felix frowns, the turn in the conversation perplexing but no less irritating. “What does that—oh.” His ears warm with embarrassment at his own foolishness, but subterfuge has never been a strength of his. He shakes the coin purse, its jostled contents rattling within, and says, “I want to donate this money to the church then.”

The damned priest smiles and holds out his hands. “I accept.”

Felix places the coin purse in his hands before offering a nod and turning to walk away, but he halts mid-step when Rhys calls, “Wait, Felix.”

“What?” He looks over his shoulder at him, not eager to engage in a longer conversation when he’s spent long enough away from Annette.

“How’s Annette doing?” Rhys asks.

“She’s…” Not speaking to him except in gibes, not that Felix can tell him that. “She’s all right.” At least physically, he thinks.

“Good, I’m happy to hear that,” he says, his smile widening. “Please give her my regards, won’t you?”

Felix doesn’t particularly want to make any promises he’s not enthused about keeping, but he finds himself nodding and agreeing anyway, “Fine. Now I need to be off.”

“Yes, of course,” Rhys says. “Safe travels.”

His business in town and at the church done - and the niggling sense that he owed the priest _something_ sated - Felix returns to the inn.

The last thing he expects is to find Annette herself in the entryway standing at the counter speaking to the innkeeper, with her back to him.

Felix’s heart skips a beat the same instant his chest tightens. It hurts to look at her, so he tries not to except when he has no choice.

Except when he does and his eyes glide to her anyway, echoes of last night’s quarrel and the accusation she flung at him ringing through his mind.

_“That was selfish of you.”_

He still wasn’t sure what he expected telling Annette what he did, and a part of him still bristles with an undercurrent of anger when he looks at her, resenting her for her prying and all but forcing him to reveal himself like that.

But an even bigger part of him regrets losing his temper with her. He wishes he could step back in time and undo it all, but he…can’t.

And she was right; Felix _is_ selfish. He likes a challenge, but he refuses to risk his life for a dumb job. He won’t go out of his way to do anyone a favor, and he certainly won’t let anyone do _him_ any favors lest he owe them. He fights for the thrill of it, not for any stupid ideals, and he likes it that way.

He left his home to avoid a life laid out for him by lineage, and to avoid a death dictated to him by duty.

“Yes, thank you!” Annette’s cheerful voice bursts out. As Felix skirts the edge of the entryway towards the stairs that lead up to their room, he watches her slide a sealed letter and a single coin across the counter to the innkeeper. “It doesn’t have to go far,” she tells him. “Only to—”

“It’s not for your uncle?” Felix cuts in.

Annette yelps before spinning around to glare at him. “No,” she says through gritted teeth, “it’s not.” She returns her attention to the innkeeper, whose eyes flick between them with some bewilderment, and only when she plasters a very fake smile onto her face does Felix remember the innkeeper thinks they’re married.

His face warms, his stomach flipping oddly, but he rests a hand on the small of Annette’s back to reaffirm their ruse. “Who are you sending—”

“You have no right to ask me that, Felix,” Annette hisses without so much as a sideways glance at him. “Not after you—” He watches as she remembers they have an audience, discomfort flickering across her face when she continues in a lower voice, “Not after last night.”

Felix presses his lips together to keep from saying anything else he’ll regret. Still, his stomach twists about itself as he drops his hand and drifts away to wait for her by the stairs.

They climb them in silence, which he normally might not mind, but after growing accustomed to Annette’s near-constant chatter or anything she hums under her breath, it’s stifling.

Inside their room he hands over his new tote so she can redistribute some rations and other supplies into her own bag. He frowns at it and the way its strap only hangs by a few threads and thinks he should’ve shilled out a few more coins to replace it too.

The next town, he decides.

Felix shuffles everything else around, making sure they’ve collected all their belongings from the room. He straps the sword he stole from the assassin to his belt alongside the new and better one, since, even if the poison staining the blade ruins the steel (and his own distaste for it) he prefers to have a spare should he lose or break the first in battle.

In the bag, his fingers brush the hilt of one of the daggers he bought. He pulls it out and, with his heart in his throat and before he can think better of it, holds it out to Annette.

“Here,” he says, unable to meet her eyes.

Annette stares at the dagger, confusion in her blue gaze. “What’s this for?” she wonders.

Felix’s grip on the hilt tightens, and she sounds so… _normal_ rather than angry or upset that he nearly sighs in relief. “For protection, obviously,” he tells her. “I know you have your magic, but what if we encounter another mage that can Silence you?”

She sucks in a breath as if she never considered that, though surely she must’ve. Her eyebrows draw together, her expression almost fearful - and Felix hates himself for putting it there. “I…see,” she says. “That was…thoughtful…of you.”

He feels as if a mage shot a fireball directly at his face. “It’s nothing fancy,” he assures her. “Just…” When he looks at her he loses whatever feeble ability to shape words into sentences he possesses, unable to convey…something.

His frustration that she doesn’t understand him, and that he doesn’t know how to make her understand.

His own confusion at why she would want to cross a continent under threat of death just to wed a man she’s never met, because her uncle _told_ her to.

His regret and shame for every time someone or something hurt her and he couldn’t stop it though it’s the only job he never accepted payment for.

His own _thoughts_ all but slaves to her and to her voice and how he wants more than anything to hear it when she freezes him out.

Annette’s fingers brush his when she accepts the dagger, a shock more powerful than a Thunder spell shooting through his blood, and that’s when Felix can finally name the source of the ache and the warmth that fight for their dominion in his chest.

* * *

They enter Empire territory proper on their second day out of the church town, leaving the Oghma Mountains and their brisk winds and Demonic Beast-riddled slopes behind them. It’s almost downright balmy crossing the fields in the northern reaches of the Empire, at least with the weather as changeable as her mother’s moods.

The static in the air leaves Annette’s hair a mess, and maybe she wouldn’t mind so much if it wasn’t another complaint on top of a growing list. If she wrote everything down it would probably be as tall as her…or, more likely, Felix.

He’s quiet again, even less talkative since their…quarrel at the inn, and he refused to share the tent with her last night without offering any explanation beyond avoiding her gaze and a flush in his cheeks.

The cloud of their angry words still hangs over them, as surely as do the thunderclouds blotting out the sun. Every time Annette glances at Felix something stabs her through the chest or punches her in the gut, and she isn’t sure if his persistent silence now - _nothing_ like their first days of travel - hurts more than the words he snapped at her then.

But when they stopped on the first night - without lighting a fire, as the nonexistent cover of the plains forced them to camp out in the open - she often felt the heat of his gaze on her until she glanced in his direction and failed to meet his eyes.

They skirt most villages that lie across their path and take care to avoid major roads, wary of Empire troops moving across and around them. Travelers too would stand out in any small farming community, and the last thing they need is to be recognized.

The monotony gets to her, an itch burrowing under her skin worse than the sting of a mosquito. She tries to break it up by humming and by flipping through _The Logic of Reason_ even while they walk, but the third time that Felix has to rescue her from tripping face-first into another ditch he snatches the book away and stuffs it into his bag without a word, refusing to return it no matter how much she nags him.

Annette isn’t quite desperate enough to reread the lyrics she’s composed in her song journal in front of him yet, but if he continues to keep his silence she may resort to drastic measures to relieve her boredom.

She just has to think of what; sprawling wheat fields and grazing cattle don’t give much by way of inspiration.

Instead, she occupies her time struggling to wrap her head around the fact that the bodyguard she hired is a damn _Fraldarius_. Why? She doesn’t understand, his answers from the other night more and more confusing the more she thinks about them (and she thinks about them far more than she cares to admit even to herself).

He ran away because his brother…died? Her thought keeps looping back to that fact, because it just makes the snakes that have made their home in Annette’s stomach twist and turn and tangle.

And she had the audacity to call him _selfish_.

Yet she can’t even begin to bring herself to apologize, not when every time she makes an inane observation and he replies in a clipped voice tears threaten to spill from her eyes.

The dagger he gave her weighs at her too. Something about the memory of it warms her almost as much as it confuses her, from the… _heat_ in his eyes, his insistence that she should have something to defend herself should an enemy render her magically impotent, and the fact that it was the last real conversation they had before he just. Stopped. _Talking_ to her.

Annette’s fingers close around the hilt of the dagger, not because she’s thinking of (not lethally) stabbing Felix to get him to talk to her or even just to look at her, but because she can’t clutch at her pendant anymore like she used to when upset.

_“He’s a mean one, he’s a duke’s son, he’s a—”_

Felix, trekking a pace ahead of her, stops in his tracks. Annette’s heart skips a beat, thinking she’s finally earned a reaction from him, only for him to take another step.

Her own feet freeze to the ground. She grows roots and refuses to move, watching him walk further and further away from her, waiting to see how long it’ll take him to realize she no longer follows, wondering if he’ll even bother with her when he notices. The knot of dread in her stomach coils tighter with every step he takes away.

He halts before he crests a low hill, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword in what she now recognizes as a nervous habit much like how she grabs - how she _used_ to grab - her necklace. His eyes, wide and even from here she thinks she can see a hint of his piercing amber irises, land on her at the bottom of the hill.

“What are you _doing_?” he demands, looking and sounding as livid as he did a few nights ago. “If you needed to rest, you could’ve just told me.”

Annette swallows a sob; she does not want to cry in front of him, she does not want him to know how much she just wants him to _talk_ to her, she does not—

She uproots herself and climbs the hill to join him. “I’m fine,” she says. “I guess that was rest enough. Say, Felix”—she’s not wasting this chance—”do you think tonight we can light a fire? I have a feeling it’ll rain and—”

“Then the rain will just put it out,” he replies, and without another word he walks away.

Annette has no choice but to follow and pretend she doesn’t notice how much closer he watches her after that.

But never when she’s watching him.

* * *

It not only rains that night, but it _pours_. Rivulets of muddy water flow downhill, and Felix has to be wary of where he pitches the tent lest the storm turns it into a sinkhole or washes them away. He’s confident, at least, that they’re far enough away from any tributaries of the Airmid River that they’ll avoid waking up in the midst of a flood.

Probably.

Lightning arcs across the clouds, igniting his dismal surroundings in a brief flash of light and heralding the thunder that rattles his bones and drowns out the sound of the rain itself, and for once Felix is glad for the lack of cover that trees would provide.

The downpour plasters his hair to his face and his clothes to his skin. He hunches his shoulders against the cold while setting up as minimal of a camp as he can, eager for shelter…at least for Ann—Miss Dominic, if not for himself.

She stands a little ways away, looking as miserable as he feels shivering and wet. When lightning strikes, it lights up her face, and Felix’s stomach lurches to see her so pale.

She gave up trying to help make camp tonight and never even bothered to reach for any of the tent’s stakes or cables. She just stood nearby, her arms crossed tightly and her gaze distant.

Her silence hurts, but after spending the last two days doing nothing but rebuff her, it’s what Felix deserves.

“It’s up,” he says in a low voice, just loud enough to make himself heard over the rain. He frowns at the tent and hopes that it can keep the water out, though the craftsman he bought it from assured him it would.

Miss Dominic crawls under the flap without another word, dragging her bag along with her, but Felix lingers outside.

The tent seems to emanate a welcome warmth, or at least a dryness, and Ann—Miss Dominic herself…

It hurts to look at her at the same time that he can never bring himself to look away. By no means does it make sense, even as he tries his damnedest to quiet the storm in his own mind and chest when he knows he’s the reason she’s upset. Every time he thinks of losing her, of failing her, of her calling him selfish for leaving his family though he knows it’s true, he can’t breathe for the fear trying to claw its way up his throat. So he does the only thing he’s good at that doesn’t involve swinging a sword:

He runs away.

The flap lifts behind him, and when he looks over his shoulder, Miss Dominic pokes her head out, her lips twisted into a frown and her eyebrows drawn together. “Felix, what are you _doing_?” she demands, shouting over a nearby thunderclap. “You can’t sleep outside tonight while it’s pouring!”

Water trickles past his collar and down his back, yet still Felix steels himself against the cold and wet and pretends he isn’t shivering. “I’m fine,” he retorts.

“You’ll get sick!” Miss Dominic exclaims with her voice rising in pitch. “And what will you do then? You can’t… _fight_ sick.”

He can…but not well. He sets his jaw, eyes slipping shut to keep the rain out, before he sighs and relents far more easily than he should.

The sound of rain against tent canvas is almost soothing when he crawls inside, where it’s nice and dry even if the air itself feels a little damp (but drier than his skin). Miss Dominic gives the entrance a wide berth, but when Felix ties the tent shut water stops dripping in.

It’s dark inside too, darker than outside, and she’s little more than a silhouette with her profile traced in shadow. She breathers louder than it rains, yet Felix’s pulse in his ears still threatens to overpower it.

He sits with his legs crossed as far away as he can get from her in this small space, the shivers that wrack his body at last abating. But when that sensation no longer distracting him, Miss Dominic’s presence takes over his senses.

This is only their second night camping outside, too distant between large towns where they can find an inn and blend into any crowds, but the inside already _smells_ like her, like the dried apricots and raisins from their travel rations, like the rain and a clean wind carrying the scent of flowers. She shifts in place, stirring the base fabric under him, but, he sees from the corner of his eye, she doesn’t lie down to sleep.

Felix can’t remember the last time Miss Dominic smiled at him, though he knows it must’ve been…damn, before they fought the Demonic Beast, before she spoke his family name like it was half-realization, half-accusation, before a rock cracked her over the head and he suffered the biggest scare of his life.

Long before he… _knew_.

A chasm yawns between them, wider than any valley they would’ve crossed if they trekked through the mountains rather than cut through the northern Empire, and far wider than the space the tent allows them to keep between them. His chest tightens and, at a loss, he unsheathes his sword before digging through his tote in search of the small bottle of oil he bought to polish it.

Miss Dominic sits across from Felix with her legs tucked close to her chest and her arms folded on her knees. Distantly he thinks her gaze rests on him, but he can’t imagine why she would want to look at him.

“I can…cast a small Fire spell,” she offers in a low voice that nevertheless cuts through the silence blanketing them and the sound of the rain without.

He nods but then, when he realizes she may not see it in the dark, says, “So long as you don’t burn the tent down.”

Miss Dominic snorts, but then a glyph the size of his hand lights her face in its glow. A small, concentrated ball of flame bursts into being between them, hovering over her palm. Her eyes reflect its light, and Felix’s hands still, mesmerized.

His stomach flips, chest tightening, and he forces himself to look away. The last thing he should be doing, deserving or not, is…admiring her.

“Can I have my book back?” Miss Dominic wonders then. “We’re not walking anymore.”

Felix rolls his eyes - he forgot he took her book after she nearly fell into a ditch while reading it - but reaches into his bag to tug it out. He hands it across the tent to her and, from the corner of his eye, watches her replace it in her own bag in favor of extracting her other book.

He’s never seen her open that one. No title adorns its cover or its spine, and its binding is simple leather. Curiosity prickles at him, and he asks, “What’s that one about?”

Miss Dominic stiffens, and he wonders if he imagines the hint of red coloring the shells of her ears. “None of your business,” she says.

He sighs but… “If you’re going to keep singing about me,” he tries when an odd stroke of boldness fills him, “you should at least tell me what’s in that book.”

Panic flits across her face for some reason. She clutches the book close to her chest and retorts, “W-what does this book have to do with my singing?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Uh…I don’t know,” he says. “You tell me. Do you write your songs in there?”

For one long heartbeat Miss Dominic glares at him. Felix thinks he might’ve pushed her too far and she’ll throw the book at him. The thought of _that_ shoots an unfamiliar thrill through his blood, if only because then he can catch it and open it for himself to sate the curiosity that burns in him.

But Miss Dominic just…ignores his question. She tugs the letter from between its pages and reads that instead.

“Why didn’t you send that one while we were still at the inn?” he asks.

“It’s not meant to be sent,” she replies simply. “It’s just a letter of introduction for Count Gloucester my uncle wrote me.”

Has she told him about this? So much has happened he can’t remember, which itself sends a spike of pain through his chest; as much as it might hurt, he doesn’t want to forget anything to do with her.

“What about—”

“Felix,” Miss Dominic interrupts before he can say another word, “please, stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop…talking to me like you haven’t been doing your best to pretend I don’t exist for the last two days.”

Maybe it’s finally time, Felix thinks as his eyes slip shut, as if that’ll ward him against the knife twisting inside him. Maybe now he should tell her or else suffer another rash of guilt and regret to pile on top of anything else that refuses to be buried.

His heart skips a beat, nervous rather than any degree of excited, and he reaches for his bag. He digs through it until his fingers brush against the small pouch where he stores their coin and pulls it out.

“We finished that Demonic Beast job together,” Felix reminds her. He counts about half the coins left to him and replaces them in his bag before tossing the pouch across the tent.

It lands with a clink at her feet. She picks it up, her eyebrows drawn together and confused, and asks, “Why are you giving this to me?”

Felix swallows back his sudden reluctance, wondering where his boldness from a moment ago disappeared, and says, “You should hire a sellsword that’ll actually get you to your destination safely.”

Miss Dominic’s eyes widen, her lips parting with surprise. An awful, tense silence descends as she just stares at him with the coin pouch dangling from her fingers and the rain pounding away against the tent canvas.

Then she scowls and says, “No.”

“ _N-no_?” he says, incredulous. He thought for sure - especially after their quarrel, especially after he spoke to her as little as possible since, especially after—

“No.” Miss Dominic throws the pouch back at him. It lands in his lap, its contents heavier than when he gave them to her. “Don’t be stupid. I’ll hire you right back with that money if you insist on giving it to me.”

“That wasn’t part of our deal,” he tells her, only to toss it back to her.

Miss Dominic catches it between her hands more deftly than he expects. “Neither was you—you _breaking_ it!” she snaps, her tone rising higher. She throws it again, harder this time as the coins thunk against the palms of his hands.

Felix’s heart races with the urgency to make her understand…something, anything. “Hire a sellsword that doesn’t have a bastard like Miklan on his tracks.”

“From where?” Miss Dominic demands. “We’re in the middle of a field during a storm, far from any towns, and we haven’t even seen Miklan in almost a week.”

“It’s only a matter of time,” Felix says, “and there was the Demonic Beast too.”

“It’s dead! Are you trying to tell me it’s going to chase after us too?”

His face warms, and he bares his teeth, irritated, as he grouses, “No, obviously not, but that was my job—”

“Then keep your damn money! I don’t want it, I want—” She claps a hand over her mouth, a strangled gasp escaping her while she stares past him with wide eyes. The ball of flame between them flares once before it sputters out leaving nothing behind but the slightest hint of smoke and darkness.

This new silence feels…charged. The hair on the back of Felix’s neck stands on end, tension coiling in his muscles like the anticipation of a battle, like the shock of lightning through damp air.

He’s never wanted to disrupt it more, but he’s never been at more of a loss of what to say either.

Felix clears his throat, as if that’ll relieve some of the dryness in his mouth, and says, “You…called me selfish the other night.”

Miss Dominic sucks in a breath, her silhouetted face angling towards him. “Felix—”

“You were right,” he tells her. “I am selfish. I had duties I didn’t want…I can’t…” He scrubs a hand over his face and growls, frustrated. “Why can’t you run away then too? Don’t bother with Gloucester or what your uncle wants and just…” He looks at her, though he can’t make out the expression on her face in the dark, not like he would know how to interpret it if he could. “Y-you fight well, you sing nice, you have strengths that have nothing to do with marriage alliances, if you’re so intent on helping the Kingdom any noble house would be lucky to have you on their side.”

“I don’t…know,” Miss Dominic says, far quicker than he expects. “I called you that without thinking, because I don’t really think it’s true after everything you’ve done just for me.”

Now it’s his turn to inhale sharply. He wishes, for once, the shadows don’t conceal her face from him, or even that he could find the nerve to sit beside her rather than across from her. As small as the tent is, the distance between them…gapes, fathomless as a void.

“Do you hate me, Felix?” she wonders then. “I thought you must since you haven’t spoken much to me lately, but you just said…well, it was nice, what you said. You can be nice sometimes, I guess.”

His gut twists, awful and unpleasant; maybe he ought to be relieved she thinks he hates her, but he isn’t. He hugs his legs close, feeling like a small child sulking alone after a fight with his brother or Dimitri, and admits, “I…don’t.” Not that he can begin to explain the depth of his feelings towards her, not that he even should.

“Then…you promised you w-wouldn’t leave,” Miss Dominic says with a tremor in her voice - and he’s to blame for her uncertainty too. “I don’t care who your father is, or why you—why you left home, or—or if staying with you is more dangerous to me than traveling without you, and maybe—maybe _I_ _’m_ selfish for that.”

“You’re not selfish for that,” he tells her. Something swoops in his chest; does he dare to hope she might…?

The hope, so fleeting and useless, sinks when he continues, “You’re allowed to be a little selfish, especially while on some fool’s errand to wed the highest bidder.”

“It’s not a ‘fool’s errand’,” Miss Dominic protests. “I need to do this to protect my family and territory. Everyone’s counting on me. I can’t afford to disappoint them.”

Felix probably imagines that she’s trying to convince herself as much as she is him, but he still watches her curl in on herself, mirroring his own position. His heart races as he unwinds his limbs and, unsure what possesses him except a desperate need to be near her while he can, slides across the tent.

Miss Dominic turns her head to face him, her eyelashes picked out in shadow, and when lightning flickers outside, he sees her cheeks are damp.

They’ve been out of the rain long enough for him to fail to mistake the source as anything but tears.

He wants to ask if he can be a little more selfish, if she’ll let him hold her, but he can’t force the words past his lips.

But she moves first, sliding towards him until she slips her arms under his and leans into him. She nestles against him with her cheek pressed to his chest, right over his heart fighting to burst through his ribs. Her hair tickles his chin as she presses in almost hesitantly.

Felix wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her hair. It’s still damp, and smells of the rain and soil, but it’s still just…Annette. Her body is small - she feels even smaller tucked into his arms - but she warms him through his core.

He can’t remember the last time he embraced anyone or let anyone embrace _him_ either. Before Glenn died, he thinks, before his childhood ended and his first battle and the first drops of an enemy’s blood stained his blade.

He doesn’t know if he misses the feeling of another person’s arms around him, or if Annette herself is the sole person chipping away at the ice encasing his heart, but he doesn’t need to know either.

He just holds her for as long as he can, for as long as she’ll let him, through the night while they fall asleep to the sound of rain and distant thunder, with his pulse in his ears and her slow and steady breaths against his collar, and love her as long as he remembers how to draw strength from another.

Felix doesn’t think about how, at the end of all this, he’ll have to watch Annette marry someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last scene is one of my favorites in the whole fic. It was one of the first clear ones in my head. Also yes, i know i tagged this as a slow burn but Feelings developed a bit faster. In my defense though they've been through a lot together okay! also i personally hc Felix falls pretty hard and fast anyway; but what about Annette? who knows ~~i know. for this fic at least~~
> 
> ...i will admit that this chapter's Original Annette Composition(TM) was not my most inspired
> 
> Edit: there is now [ART of that last scene](https://twitter.com/tomaarrie/status/1341846491791577092?s=20)! Go check it out and shower the very talented artist [tomaarrie](https://twitter.com/tomaarrie?s=20) with praise! 'twas a gift from [Rose](https://twitter.com/Rose3Writes?s=20) too, who has always been encouraging and a very helpful beta reader ;_;


	8. we'll make a pair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the eye of the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was blown away with the response last chapter, so I hope you enjoy this and subsequent ones too!

Talking to Felix about, well, anything grows easier after spending a stormy night in a tent. Maybe it’s because they put their quarrel behind them, or because they’ve both finally laid to rest the possibility of parting before the end of the journey. Or maybe something about waking up cozy to a clear sky after sleeping under his coat in a mess of tangled limbs and sharing heat loosens something inside her enough she feels like she doesn’t have to hold her tongue around him about anything.

_Almost_ anything.

And the one thing she can’t tell him nearly slipped from her lips that night too.

_“I don’t want it, I want—”_

Annette wants him. What does that even _mean_?

When she spoke she only thought of keeping him with her. They’d crossed half a continent together, she couldn’t bear to part so soon, never mind that he might be better off without her. But the words unspoken linger on her mind, and she can’t deny how…comfortable and _comforted_ she was falling asleep and waking up in his arms before she remembered what she’d face before long.

Is she suffering an attraction that’ll fade the instant Felix hands her over to her groom with whom she’ll doubtless fall helplessly, madly in love?

Is it an infatuation like Ashe’s when he once gushed about the knights and ladies from the stories?

Is she in love with _him_?

Annette doesn’t know, but there’s something in the flutter in her chest when Felix shoots her one of his small smiles, or in the knife to the gut when she remembers the pain in his voice when they fought, or the flush in her skin when their hands brush while he hands her a strip of jerky or how almost…shy he was when he gave her the dagger she tucked into her boot or—

So maybe she does love him, though she’s only known him for all of a fortnight, though she’s witnessed…so many different sides of him, from angry and irritable and _selfish_ to protective and thoughtful and almost gentle, from the man who first turned a deaf ear to her plight when she first approached him for help to the one who bandaged her wounds and fretted over her. All the silly insults she’s fired at him before pale in comparison to what she sees in him now.

And that poses a problem when she’s supposed to marry someone else.

Annette collides with his arm when he flings it out in front of her. She stumbles backwards in shock, only for him to catch her again around her waist when her heart skips a beat and her arms flail.

“Careful,” Felix warns her. He holds her against his side briefly, eyes sharp on her face as if he searches for something there, only to pull away as quickly as he grabbed her.

Her face warms, but she doesn’t know if it’s embarrassment for tripping again or from the almost idle way he touched her. He _has_ been awfully reticent about contact since that night in the tent - she flushes even hotter when she thinks on it, thinks on what she almost _said_ amid the pain and confusion in the storm - as quick to let her go as he is to touch her in the first place.

“What did you even do that for?” Annette wonders. She peers around, searching for…she’s not sure, but they stand in the middle of yet another empty field. She thinks they must be somewhere north of Gronder Field by now (not that she would know it from this vast…nothing), and unless her memory of the last map she scrutinized fails her, they’re still some leagues west of the Airmid River and the crossing at the Bridge of Myrrdin.

Every step they take carries them closer to the end of the journey, but rather than eagerness to be there, a knot of dread tightens in her stomach.

“I thought I saw…a horse,” he admits, his eyes scanning the level horizon.

Annette’s eyes practically ache as she too gazes over the dull landscape. She misses the forests from further north and the stoniness and gorges of the mountains, the farmland and plains here stretching endlessly before them with few villages and towns to break the monotony.

“The Empire’s so big,” she notes, “but it’s so…empty.”

“It’s just here,” Felix tells her as they continue walking along the overgrown footpath. “There are more people further south, towards Enbarr.”

“Have you ever been there before?” she wonders. She may as well indulge any lingering curiosity she has about him while he’s forthcoming, while she still has the chance.

“No,” he says, shaking his head but staring ahead. “I was always too young to travel that far when my father still visited.”

Annette’s jaw drops at his words, shocked that he answered her question and _kept speaking_. But a smile prods her lips, and, emboldened, she offers, “I always wanted to visit the opera house.”

Felix’s lips twitch. “To audition?”

When her ears ignite under her hair, she elbows his arm and retorts, “Obviously not! I only sing in a church choir.”

“And where I can hear you, apparently,” he reminds her with a wry smirk.

“Well, I’ll take care not to from now on if you’re going to be a scoundrel about it!”

“A scoundrel?” Felix echoes with a snort. “Just for listening to you sing?”

“Yes, among other things.” Annette slips ahead of him so he can’t see the inevitable blush painting her cheeks. A peculiar giddiness fills her, and she finds herself smiling for no reason.

Well, maybe Felix is the reason, as much as he’s the cause of her…anguish.

It lurks at the edge of her thoughts and deep in her chest, ready to drown out every other feeling if she lets herself think about the end.

What will her groom be like? Not that it matters so much anymore so long as he doesn’t dislike her for her…quirks or shortcomings, but she can’t imagine anyone accepting her restlessness or clumsiness or silly lyrics as anything more than foolishness.

Not even Felix with that edge of teasing in his tone.

_“The end is near, we’re almost there, my groom awaits, we’ll make a pair…”_

Singing senselessly to herself should be a comfort, but now it just makes a lump stick in Annette’s throat.

When they settle for camp that evening amid a rare copse of trees somewhere between two different farmers’ fields of wheat, she turns her dagger between her hands as obsessively as she once memorized every detail in the necklace her father gave her. It’s not ornate by any stretch of the imagination, but the blade shines enough a single blue eye stares back at her.

She hoped to busy herself by cleaning it just like Felix, sitting an arm’s length away, polished his sword with a cloth.

Annette rests her elbows on her thighs and leans towards him. “You haven’t even used it yet,” she observes. “What are you even cleaning off it?”

“Dust and dirt,” he says, “or anything else that’ll stain it.” He raises it to inspect the blade before sliding it back into the scabbard at his hip. “I don’t want the steel to age or rust too quickly, and the storm a couple nights ago didn’t do it any favors.”

She nods, because it does make a certain kind of sense. She used to help her mother polish the family silver, and even books show their age if they spend too long in the cold and damp.

“Do you think, um, do you think we can make it without encountering anymore trouble?” Annette tries then, reluctant for them to lapse into silence, reluctant to be alone with any dismal thoughts.

Felix doesn’t answer her at first. He slides closer to her instead, close enough her breath sticks in her lungs, but not enough their arms brush. Carefully, boldly, she moves her hand closer to where his rests on the ground and links their pinkies together.

When he doesn’t pull away, she releases a breath.

“No,” Felix says then, and she turns to look at him and his grave frown, “I don’t.”

Her heart sinks with disappointment, but…she isn’t afraid. Her grip on the dagger tightens, and when she closes her eyes she sees Metodey’s smirk and Miklan’s snarl.

“Would Miklan really follow us into Empire territory?” she wonders. “I know he said he’s hunting you for an Empire bounty, but—”

“Yes,” Felix replies immediately, a scowl twisting his face. “He’s a bully, but he’s a persistent one.”

“How do you even know him?” she asks. “He obviously knows you.”

“He’s my…an old friend’s older brother,” he explains. “Their father disowned him because he doesn’t have a Crest, and I suspect that’s partly why he hates me almost as much as he does his brother.”

Annette wrinkles her nose. “But you can’t control that,” she says. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Felix shrugs, apparently not bothered by the fact someone so nasty would bear him a personal grudge. “It doesn’t matter much anymore,” he says. “I gave up whatever pointless privileges come with a Crest anyway.”

The shadows of their hands, barely touching, flickers in the light of the moon that streams in through interlocking tree branches overhead. And she thinks of her own Crest, enough to make it easy for her uncle to make her a match but not enough to help her survive when it counts.

Annette would be happy enough to help Felix survive should Miklan prove him right. Her gaze catches on his sharp profile, softened by moonlight and shadow, and she remembers studying him just as intently when he was just the irritable and irritating sellsword that saved her from an assassin’s blade.

Except now she finds him…handsome, with his hair from her poor job cutting it falling into his face and eyelashes longer than hers (which is its own sort of unfair, though her mother would say the goddess does not give with both hands). She wants to push his hair away from his face, or to lean her head against his shoulder, or let him tuck her into his arms like he did the night of the storm.

Instead she pulls her hand away from his and clasps it with her other around the dagger’s hilt in her lap, avoiding the temptation in any lapse of concentration. But Felix’s gaze follows the motion, and he says, “Let me show you how to hold that.”

Annette nods and holds her dagger the way she’s seen him hold his sword, the tip pointed away from her. Her breath catches again when his hands cover hers, loosening and adjusting her grip.

“Always keep the blade between you and a foe,” he explains. He taps her elbow. “And don’t hold yourself so stiffly; you’ll end up breaking yourself instead.”

She rolls her eyes but stretches her arm; she can’t possibly admit that his proximity, his body heat and his scent, of leather and sweat and the oil he uses to polish his sword, almost overwhelms her from this close.

“If you want to wound deeply, you have to put more force behind it,” he continues, guiding her through an experimental swipe at the air. “But…”

“What?” Annette prompts when he trails off, when his hand falls back to his lap and she misses its warmth.

“The more force you use, the harder it’ll be to strike again, so if you miss, it’s that much easier for your foe to get his own strike in.”

“Then go for shallow jabs?” she asks.

He nods and adds, “And run away if you need to.”

“Run _away_?” she echoes, incredulous that someone who likes fighting as much as Felix would advise her to run away from one. “What if they chase me?”

“They won’t,” Felix promises, his voice pitching low enough her belly flutters, “because they’ll have to deal with me first.”

* * *

It’s almost comfortable now, traveling with Annette, at least when Felix doesn’t allow his mind to linger on what happens when they reach their destination. Not that he can help it when every time he dares to touch her shoulder or her hand or steady her when she stumbles he imagines a faceless man doing it instead.

The stranger will listen to her voice raised in song and smile at her endearing clumsiness and tease her for her imagination and hold her when she cries and protect her from harm, and Felix will be left with what he had before he met Annette.

Nothing but a hollowness in his chest that all the battle in the world can only hope to fill, a pit that only grows with the more he learns about her, the more he gives her of himself.

“I wanted nothing more than to beat my brother just once,” Felix confesses one day. He doesn’t look at her - he barely knows why he’s telling her this, only that some part of him wants her to understand him better.

Annette, walking just behind him, sucks in a breath. “Did you?” she wonders.

“I suppose I did in a manner of speaking,” he says. He swallows the old, familiar ache and even older bitterness. “In the only way that matters.” By outliving him, by growing older than he ever would, by living an untethered life he would’ve refused.

Is that strength? Felix doesn’t know anymore.

Maybe because she hears something in his voice her fingers brush against his before she says, “That letter I sent from the last inn…”

“What of it?” he says, glancing sideways to find her staring at her feet, as if to have a care where she steps.

“It was meant for my father,” she explains. “I haven’t seen him in years, not since he left us, and I think a part of me is…hoping he could get the letter in time and be there for my wedding.”

Felix’s chest tightens, with a sympathy that grows more familiar, or with the reminder that his days with Annette are numbered. “He left?” he echoes.

She flashes him a tremulous smile as she nods. “I used to ask myself every day why I—why we weren’t good enough for him to stay,” she says, “b-but maybe thinking like that is a little selfish too.”

He takes her hand before he can think better of it and pretends not to hear her sharp intake of breath. An alien shame writhes within him and stifles the impulse to speak ill of another that hurt Annette.

He’d make himself more of a hypocrite.

“It’s not your fault,” he tries instead. “It’s not—what other people do…it’s never your fault.”

Her eyes snap to his and widen very slightly before drifting away again. Her warm fingers squeeze his, and she says, “I-I know that, I just…I guess I can’t help thinking it, and hoping if I make things right somehow he’d go home to my mother.”

“Maybe by keeping his distance he’s the selfish one,” Felix muses. “Maybe you’re both better off without him.”

“D-don’t say that,” Annette retorts. “You don’t know him!”

He shrugs and tugs his hand from her grasp. He turns away to resume walking, because she’s right - but _wrong_ \- but he doesn’t want to waste what little time they have left quarreling.

And Annette, perhaps thinking along the same lines as him, drops it quickly.

Felix still lets himself be a little more selfish…though he refuses to allow himself to embrace her again - touching her hand, letting go of her hand, was difficult enough - for fear he’ll never want to let go.

“What’s your favorite tea?” he wonders later, just because he can. He never understood the finer points of making conversation or liked small talk, but with the end of a journey impending, he needs to know everything about her that she’ll tell him or let him witness for himself to tuck away for later when it’s time to bury it all in the same shallow grave as his other memories.

“I like rose tea,” she says, “but I can drink anything so long as I have sugar or honey to sweeten it.”

His lips twitch into a smirk. “Is that why you’ve eaten most of our dried fruit? You like sweets?”

“Yes, I do,” she says. She sticks her nose in the air as if daring him to judge her for it. “I suppose you like meat and strong flavors.”

He nods and nudges her along with a hand against the small of her back while adding, “I don’t care for sweets though.”

“Too bad,” Annette says. “I like baking. I would’ve liked to bake for…well, I like to bake!”

They pause at a stream that crosses their path to refill their canteens and wash. Felix longs for a proper bath, but it’ll be at least another day before they reach a town large enough for an inn.

“Is this a tributary, do you think?” Annette wonders while she crouches at the bank with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She splashes water over her face and shivers.

Some drips down to soak the bodice of her dress, and Felix looks away.

“Probably,” he guesses, gazing across the stream towards another copse of trees that breaks up the monotony of fallow wheat fields. His skin prickles with discomfort, and he slaps a hand against the back of his neck as if to swat at a mosquito.

Tension fills him, a sense of something he can’t explain, as he rests a hand on the hilt of his sword. He surveys their surroundings, the fields and the stream and the trees, half-expecting an Empire battalion to be encamped nearby; they’ve seen a few since entering Empire territory and always gave them as wide a berth as possible.

“…lix?” Annette’s voice filters through his ears from far away. “Felix?”

His eyes slip shut before he looks at her, her face higher than when he looked away. “What?”

“You looked deep in thought,” she observes with a furrow in her brow he wants to smooth away. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he tells her. He tries to offer her a smile, if only to reassure her, but she doesn’t return it.

“Are you…sure?” Her hand finds his where he grasps his sword hilt, and he loosens his grip to let her tangle their fingers.

His chest tightens; he should pull his hand away, pull _himself_ away to diminish the pain of parting later, but he doesn’t.

“I’m sure,” he lies, and at last tugs his hand from her grasp.

They ford the stream quickly, stepping across on slick rocks that jut out of its surface and part its current. Water soaks the hem of Annette’s dress though she lifts it, and Felix has to cross ahead of her and link their hands again lest she slip and fall.

He breathes a little easier on the opposite bank, when he can let her go again, though Annette examines her hem and sighs.

“I can’t wait until I can do laundry again,” she complains.

“Do you have a laundry song?” he wonders before he can stop himself.

“Of course,” she says, and he has to turn his face away from her so she doesn’t see his shock at her straightforwardness. “I don’t remember it,” she continues, oblivious to the expression on his face as she follows along just behind him, “but I think I wrote it in my song journal.”

“Your…song journal?” he repeats. Something like excitement fills him. Were his suspicions about that second book of hers _correct_?

When he dares to glance over his shoulder at her, it’s to the pleasure of witnessing her cheeks darken with a livid blush. She avoids his gaze but draws level with him, grumbling, “It’s the…other book I’m carrying.”

“Can I read—”

“No,” Annette cuts him off, utterly remorseless in tone, “but you can read _The Logic of Reason_ , if you want.”

“What do I want with an intermediate Reason text?” he wonders. “Your song journal would be so much more…interesting.”

“Interesting?” She snorts, but her lips twitch. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“I think you are laughing though,” he notes, a smile of his own mirroring hers. Unlike the rest, he doesn’t want to suppress this one; it matches the sudden buoyancy in his chest, warm and pleasant and unfamiliar.

And he…loves when she smiles almost as much as he loves inciting it himself.

“You’re such a fiend,” she whines. She plants her palms against his back and shoves him forward, but even he can tell she’s not truly upset.

They pass into the shade of the copse Felix spied from across the stream. It’s still an hour or so until sunset, he thinks, but without knowing when next they’ll find a more sheltered landscape he considers the possibility of camping out here. His body aches after so many days of traveling on foot and sleeping on the ground, and though she never complains of it, he’s sure Annette must feel the same.

He opens his mouth to suggest an early night when the unmistakable scraping of steel against a scabbard greets his ears.

Felix acts without thinking. His hand closes around Annette’s elbow, ignoring her squeak of alarm, and pushes her against the wide trunk of a nearby tree. His other hand finds the hilt of his sword, but he doesn’t unsheathe it, not when he doesn’t know where the enemy lies, when he can sneak up on them and take them - take Annette - unawares.

His heart pounds in his throat, his body on high-alert while he keeps his ears peeled. Annette trembles against him; her fingers clutch at his coat while he cranes his neck to peer around the trunk of their hiding place.

Her short, warm breath brushes his neck, distractingly close and only setting him more on edge amid trees silent but for an easy rustling of leaves and branches in a weak breeze. He grits his teeth and chokes back a growl lest he alert their pursuer.

Metodey, he thinks. It must be Metodey. Every other time they encountered him he tried to sneak up on them, finding an Annette he thought rendered helpless and unguarded. Approaching them in daylight is bold for him though, and if not for the alarm rising in his throat and the tension in his limbs, Felix might almost be impressed with his lack of cowardice this time.

Annette shifts against him, trapped between his body and the trunk. When he glances down at her, her eyes catch his gaze and her lips shape his name.

He shakes his head, warning her not to speak, to not draw attention to them, to herself - waiting, watching, listening for a camouflaged enemy.

He hears nothing, and he wonders if his imagination, preying on the tension continuously coiling within him and on his fears, conjured a threat.

“I-is he here?” Annette wonders in a low voice.

He doesn’t look at her, still wary of missing anything. “Maybe…not,” he admits with a sigh.

From the corner of his eye, pink stains her cheeks, and her grip on his coat tightens. “Then, um…can you…” She trails off, her eyes wide and with something…expectant in them.

Felix swallows to relieve the sudden dryness in his throat. Annette’s gaze tracks the motion before flicking back up.

He should move, they should keep walking and find a suitable place to set up camp, but he doesn’t.

Neither does Annette.

He leans into her a little more, drawn to her like a doomed moth to a flame. She’s warm, warmer than the cool late autumn breeze and more comfortable than the afternoon sun’s feeble heat. Her face hovers so close to his, tantalizing in its proximity, and he can count the fine dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose.

His breath catches in his throat, and if she couldn’t feel his heart racing before when he thought someone followed their trail then she surely must now. He raises a hand to push a loose, frizzing curl away from her face and watches her eyes flutter shut.

Felix dares to think Annette leans into his touch.

He wants to close the lingering distance between them, wants to comb his fingers through her hair to cup the back of her head and angle it higher. It would be so easy while they’re so close, while Annette has yet to shove him away.

Her hand splays over his racing heart as she breathes, “Felix—”

And then her gaze drifts to something past him.

The glyph for a spell ignites the same instant she pushes him off. He spins around to face the same direction, his sword in his hand and—

Metodey approaches with the slow, deliberate stalk of a predator assured of triumph, his eyes alight with madness and his lips twisted with a snarl. A sword just like the one Felix stole from him, gleaming with a layer of poison, sits in his right hand, a dagger in the other.

“Don’t you understand?” he says with a mad cackle. “The Emperor does not tolerate failure!”

He swipes at them the same instant Annette stirs a Wind, but unlike last time he stands against it almost with ease.

He must wear a charm that wards against magic; he learned not to underestimate her.

Now Felix will teach him not to underestimate _him_.

He steps between her and the assassin, sword held out before him and anger making his blood run hot; he’s been looking forward to quenching the new blade in an enemy’s blood. “Run,” he says over his shoulder to Annette.

“I’d sooner chase her than fight you,” Metodey says, laughing. “Truly a terrible idea.” He raises his hand and flings his dagger.

Right at Felix.

His heart jumps into his throat as he dodges the dagger. It soars past him, its hilt striking a tree trunk before falling to the ground, but before Felix can feel any degree of foolish, useless pride in that, Metodey darts past him and right at Annette.

She stands her ground like a fool, the dagger he gave her in her hand since her spells do her no good. Metodey laughs as he runs, blade blurring through the air, and he crows, “An easy victory for Metodey is still a triumph for Her Majesty!”

Felix runs, his feet fleet and his sword light in his hand. Metodey is faster, but he knows - he _knows_ \- he’ll beat him, he _has_ to.

Annette jabs at him with the dagger like he taught her, but with her inexperience in melee combat, Metodey bats it away like it’s little more than a nuisance. A gasp bursts from her when his hand finds her throat, and with a wild light in his eyes he slams her into a tree.

Felix closes the gap, vision blurring with rage. A battle cry tears from his throat, and he swings his blade at Metodey’s neck.

He drops Annette, and she crumples, stunned, against the tree. But he spins around to face Felix, his own nasty sword clutched in his hand and his tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

“I guess you’ll have to die first after—ack!” He steps away from another swipe of Felix’s sword, before batting it away with his. “You’re stronger than you look, boy,” he observes wryly. “Where was that strength last time?”

Useless and wounded and feverish in the back of a wagon.

His Crest flares as he strikes again, steel against steel throwing up sparks before Metodey stumbles backwards with a snarl. “That’s _cheating_ ,” he complains.

Felix has never been one to shirk what strength he has regardless of its source.

They clash. He dances out of the reach of Metodey’s poisonous blade and lets the anger and frustration his heart pumps through his blood fuel him. The assassin in turn makes use of his dirtiest tricks, the sort a Kingdom knight like the ones he grew up with would never use: a second dagger that nearly causes Felix to slip in his effort to dive out of his path, dust and dirt kicked up into his eyes, a fist to the face that makes his head snap back and a hiss of pain slip from his lips.

But the pain can’t drown out his desperation. Felix never engages in a battle thinking he’ll lose, and this is one he _can_ _’t_.

He retreats a step, his chest heaving with the effort of drawing air and blood from a split lip sliding down his chin. He wipes it and the sweat staining his face away and watches Metodey collect himself just out of reach of his sword.

He favors his left leg, courtesy of Felix’s blade swiping at him after he dared to punch him. A smirk lifts his lips, because now he has an opening to exploit.

Felix darts in first, thrusting his sword out before him in a wicked swipe that he knows would slay a lesser foe, but Metodey catches his blade in his, locking him in.

Now Metodey smirks, his stinking breath washing over Felix’s face. “This was a good fight,” he says. “I’ll remember you to Her Majesty when I tell her of her victory over the Dominic girl.”

Something… _stabs_ through Felix’s abdomen, a single concentrated prick of discomfort before it gives way to flame. His eyes widen with shock, his heart racing in his throat, as Metodey pulls yet another dagger stained with blood from his flesh.

Felix tries to raise his sword to strike again when Metodey unlocks their blades, but a wave of dizziness washes over him and he falls to his knees instead.

The assassin kicks the sword from his hand and stands over him. “I can finish you now,” he says, “if you beg.”

He tries to turn, but it takes all his strength just to stay upright, swaying with his new weakness, with bile rising in his throat as he falls to a devoted fool whose loyalty to his Emperor will never be repaid. “A-Annette…” Felix mumbles. Where is she?

She hopes he ran, like he told her.

“Or maybe I can do you a perverse sort of favor and let you watch me kill her first.”

Felix is no knight, not like his countrymen, not like his brother. He can fight just as dirty as this assassin, as any mercenary or sellsword with _every_ weapon at his disposal.

His hand curls into a fist, and with his last dwindling, raging strength he drives it into Metodey’s abdomen.

Metodey stumbles backwards, more shocked than truly hurt, but it’s the opening Felix needs. He draws his spare blade - the one stolen from the assassin himself - and repays him in kind.

He sheathes the sword through Metodey’s chest.

Now the assassin stares at him with wide, shocked eyes, the first normal emotion Felix has seen in them since his attack. “You… _you_.” He snarls. He reaches for his throat, some last-ditch effort to end his life, but he lets the hilt slip from his hand and stumbles away before Metodey crashes to the ground.

“My victory…Her Majesty’s victory…” Metodey practically whimpers, rendered pathetic after a fierce fight. “My last chance to…repay her…” His voice trails off into nothing.

Felix doesn’t hesitate. He clutches at the burning, gaping wound in his abdomen, blood oozing through his fingers but his heart still in his throat and alarm making him faster, faster, faster.

“Annette,” he mutters, his own weak voice little more than a rasp. Blood fills his mouth with its metallic taste, and he coughs, watching it stain the ground.

“F-Felix…” a feeble voice answers him. His heart gives a leap, something like relief giving him pause, making him tremble, and he’d curse himself for his own weakness if Annette herself didn’t enter his darkening field of vision.

She limps towards him, her eyes wide before they land on him. She looks almost unharmed except for red marks staining her neck, and if he had any strength leftover he would kill Metodey again for it.

Annette kneels in front of him and flings her arms around him. Her heart beats steadily against his chest, her hair tickling his skin like it did that night in the tent when they last held each other.

Felix wraps his own arms around her, trying to hug her closer, desperate to feel her warmth when cold grips him, but…he can’t. His vision swims even when Annette pulls away to cup his face, her palms warm against his cool flesh, her sleeve smearing blood off his split lip and…

Black spots crowd his sight, and the last thing he hears before darkness blankets him is Annette screaming his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp. if you're celebrating this weekend stay safe! 
> 
> and thank you for reading! <3


	9. today's a good day to survive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone lives, and no one dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Eliza Schuyler voice* Stay aliiiiiiive

Annette doesn’t know how she manages to get Felix out of the trees, away from where the assassin’s body cools with the coming nighttime, away from the echoes of an awful, bloody duel that’s left their pursuer dead and Felix silent and bleeding.

But somehow, someway, perhaps through desperation or an alien strength or the energy she usually siphoned through glyphs into spells, she collected Felix’s sword - he would need it when he woke, and she would have to find the opportunity to clean it for him - and dragged him through the trees to a nearby roadway.

Or, most likely, fear drives her. Her heart races in her throat, nearly drowning out the sound of her frenzied breathing. “P-please,” she begs a man that can’t hear her. “Don’t die, you told me you d-didn’t want to die for a—for your life to matter, so don’t—don’t die.”

Felix’s breath is ragged against her ear. She holds his arm slung around her shoulders with one of hers around his back, and his feet drag behind them. She wishes she was taller, or that she could do something for him besides wrap his abdomen with half their roll of bandages and watch his blood soak the linen.

Annette wishes Mercie was here, she wishes her friend was here to help her heal Felix. A lump sticks in her throat and she has to choke back a sob though no one is around to hear it.

Her steps falter as the sky darkens, sunset approaching and the chill sucking the warmth from Felix’s skin. At the side of the road she crumples, with him beside her, no longer able to hold back her tears.

She sobs like she hasn’t since she was a child and her mother hollowly told her that her father would never come home, great sobs that wrack her entire body and make it difficult - impossible - to find her feet.

“Y-you pr— _promised_ ,” she accuses Felix as she clings to him. “You—you promised y-you’d escort m-me, I still—still owe you, our deal—” She chokes on her own tears, tasting the salt on her tongue when they slide down her cheeks. She pillows his head in her lap and bows over him, leaning down to press her forehead against his, her stomach turning at the coolness of his skin. Her chest aches worse than it ever did when, not so long ago, she dreaded their parting in Gloucester.

How foolish she was, thinking the worst that could happen was that she couldn’t stay with him, that he would have to leave her, that he would do it of his volition.

His pulse still thrums under her fingertips when she touches his neck, but it’s so weak it’s difficult to hope. She has to get him and herself up again, to find him help since she’s utterly, dismally useless, a disappointment to him, to herself.

Why did she never study Faith in school? What use is Reason when her—when _Felix_ bleeds out in her arms? She couldn’t even defend herself from the assassin, useless against his ward, useless with the dagger, useless when he slammed her against a tree hard enough to stun her, useless, _use_ —

Felix’s breath hitches. Annette jerks upright, her crying stilling as she stares at him, watching his chest shift with his feeble breathing. His lips are slightly parted with the upper one split and his chin stained with drying blood.

She hiccups and wipes it away with her sleeve, gently so she doesn’t exacerbate any pain the nasty bruise blooming across his jaw might cause him. “I-if you survive,” she starts with a sniff, “I—I’ll let you r-read as many of my—all the songs I’ve—I’ve written i-in my journal.”

Annette takes one of his hands, rough with calluses from handling a sword for most of his life, and kisses his knuckles. “Please don’t—don’t leave me, Felix. I’ll n-never forgive you if you…”

Movement over the crest of a hill catches her eye. A single figure silhouetted by the sun setting behind them stands there. The wind prickles against her skin, and tension fills her spine as she reaches for her magic.

This won’t be an enemy that can stop her so easily, not while she has the wind at her beck and call and Felix’s dagger at her hip.

But is it…really a good idea to fight?

Annette falters, her arms lowering before she unleashes any of the energy humming through her fingertips. The figure at the hill gets larger and larger before she realizes it’s a man on horseback riding straight towards her.

Careful to leave Felix’s head propped up on her bag, she steps out onto the road and waves her hands wildly over her head. Her heart quickens with expectation, hoping the traveler she assails is friend rather than foe.

“Sir!” she calls to him as his horse’s hooves strike the ground at a trot. “Do you—do you know—” Annette barely knows what to ask; should she see if he has thread and needle to stitch up Felix’s wound? Or maybe he can point her in the direction of a village where a healer might live. Maybe the man himself can—

The horse slows, and the man, with red hair tied neatly at the base of his neck, raises a bow with the string pulled taut, an arrow pointing at her. Annette’s eyes slip shut as she summons a wind to fight after all.

“Don’t move,” the man says then. When she stares at him, he says, “In the name of Her Majesty Emperor Edelgard, I arrest you under suspicion of being a spy for the Kingdom. Come quietly, or I will be forced to injure you.”

Annette, sensing an opportunity if not the out she needs for herself and for Felix, bites her lip. She raises her arms and…

She knows what Felix would do if he stood beside her. He would think the worst of an Empire soldier and strike out as soon as he leveled a bow at them - or even just at her.

But he barely clings onto life, and if he’s to survive…

“I’ll come quietly,” Annette says, though her stomach flips with anxiety. What if they wind up dead for this too? “But please, F—my friend is wounded, he needs healing.”

The man appraises her from under his half-helm. “You can discuss that with Captain Bergliez when I take you to him,” he agrees.

At least the man helps her lift Felix onto his horse. In lieu of his own ride, he walks alongside Annette, careful to watch her closely while keeping a hand on his own sword.

He does confiscate Felix’s without commenting on its bloodied state, as if, slumped over in the horse’s saddle, he’s in any condition to use it.

Annette doesn’t protest that she’s not a spy, doesn’t talk to the Empire soldier much at all. She just keeps her eyes trained on Felix, watching for signs that he’s no longer…there.

His pulse still flutters weakly under her fingertips when she takes his wrist, his skin too cold and his breath feeble, all of that and the bloody wound in his abdomen at odds with the strength of the man who stood his ground against Miklan and his thugs and a Demonic Beast. She barely remembers how he took care of her after the latter incident, because shame fills her if she thinks too hard on their quarrel from when she woke.

Her hand finds Felix’s, dangling from the side of the saddle, and she squeezes his fingers as if she can trap his body heat that way. “You’ll survive this,” she promises in a steady voice that surprises her. “We’ll m-make it to Gloucester together, like you said we would.”

Any other time, and if only Felix could lift his head and scold her for surrendering to an Empire soldier so easily, Annette might feel self-conscious speaking to him like this in front of a stranger. But she can’t bring herself to care.

 _“Today’s a good day to survive,”_ she mumbles, barely singing, under her breath for Felix’s ears - not that he’ll be able to hear her - alone. _“Make sure you stay alive.”_

Another figure approaches, this one atop a Pegasus that touches down on the road beside Annette’s captor, wingbeats stirring up dust. “You captured someone?” the Pegasus rider wonders. She glances at Felix and makes a noise of exclamation. “Forde, you’re supposed to take them—”

“I found him like this, Vanessa,” Annette’s assailant interrupts her, though he hunches his shoulders almost sheepishly before jerking his head towards her. “He’s still alive, right?”

“Y-yes,” Annette tells him.

“See? I did my job.”

The Pegasus rider, Vanessa, frowns but says, “Whatever you say. I’ll take her to see the captain while you bring him.” She reaches for Annette, her hand closing around her arm.

“W-what?” she protests. Her heart jumps into her throat and, on reflex, a glyph bursts into being before her.

“Hey, hey!” Vanessa says, and in an instant the wicked tip of a lance prods Annette’s abdomen. “I won’t hurt you, and Forde’s a little bad-tempered but he’s lazy so he won’t hurt your…companion anymore than he already is.”

“But…” She loosens her grip on Felix’s hand, but her fingers still hook into his as if he, on some level in the midst of oblivion, tries to hold onto her too.

“The sooner you can explain yourself to Captain Bergliez,” Vanessa says, “the sooner he’ll get his healing, so let’s go!”

Annette’s heart weighs heavy in her chest, but she lets go of Felix’s hand…but not before pushing his sweaty hair away from his face one more time. The parting hurts now - she wonders if this is how it feels to tear herself in two - so she can’t imagine how it’ll feel when they reach their destination.

If Felix does. What if this _is_ the last time and he dies the instant he’s out of her sight?

Her gaze lifts from him to level at Forde. He’s over a head taller than her and wearing the light armor of a cavalier, but Annette doesn’t fear him. If he looses an arrow, she can bat it away with a simple wave of her hand.

She raises her chin and promises, “If he dies between here and your camp, I’ll kill you.”

Forde offers her a smile. “Camp isn’t as far as you think, lady,” he says. “Just go with Vanessa.”

A sigh escapes Annette, but with one last glare at the cavalier she turns to the Pegasus rider. “Fine,” she says, “I’ll go with you.”

The flight is a matter of a few moments in the air and a mile or less over the ground. The wind whistles past Annette, throwing her hair into her face with such force it feels like one of her own spells caught her in its grip. She spits a few strands of hair out of her mouth as the Pegasus touches down, and as she slides off the steed - only just dodging it suddenly shaking dust out of its wing feathers - she finally finds herself standing in the middle of an Empire encampment.

Fear seizes her all over again. She stumbles backwards with a shout of alarm building in her throat, half-reaching for the Pegasus’ reins with some feeble malformed plan to steal it and fly off into the darkening sky with Felix at her back. At least they can cover more ground from atop a Pegasus, perhaps even all the way back to the mountains to Rhys in his Church and his healing hands and kind smile.

What has she done to them?

“All right then.” Annette jumps, hands flying up to shield her face, when Vanessa pats her on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t be like that! We just need to make sure you and your friend aren’t spies.”

“I’m not a spy!” she argues. “I’m just a—we’re just travelers!”

“Do travelers get knifed in the gut often?” Vanessa wonders before pointing to her own neck. “Or…choked? Do you need some healing after the captain’s done with you too?”

Annette touches her neck and bites back a wince when her fingertips press against a fresh bruise. “I’m fine,” she says. “These are nothing.” No, better these soldiers’ designated healer focus their energy on Felix.

“Suit yourself,” Vanessa says with a careless shrug. Her hand closes around Annette’s upper arm before she tosses her Pegasus’ reins towards a nearby soldier. “Take care of her please,” she orders him with enough authority Annette guesses she must be higher ranked.

“Yes, ma’am,” says the other soldier, already leading the Pegasus away.

Vanessa drags Annette deeper into camp. It’s not a large encampment by any means, just a few neat and orderly rows of tents dotted with three or four cook fires, most soldiers regular infantry or low-ranking cavalry. Red and black pennants hang limply from tent poles in the absence of a breeze, and the odd off-duty soldier stares at the Pegasus rider manhandling the foreign mage with curious, if not judgmental, eyes.

A single platoon patrolling the Empire’s border with the Alliance, then, Annette guesses, but wary of Kingdom spies infiltrating from that direction? Maybe they’re nearer the Airmid River than she and Felix realized.

Felix. She glances over her shoulder, scanning the horizon for some sign of Forde returning with him, but by then darkness has descended enough she can’t see much further than the last line of tents, not with the plains swallowing every source of light.

“I’ll have to search you for weapons and documents first,” Vanessa pronounces then, tearing her from her spiraling thoughts.

Annette spins around. “What?”

“This is easy enough.” She tugs the bag off her back as she leads her into a tent high enough they can both stand. In the light of a single lantern, she begins digging through her bag. “A book of Reason,” she says, withdrawing _The Logic of Reason_ and setting it on a low camp table, “some clothes and things”—Annette’s spare dress and undergarments join her book, and she winces as if that’ll do something for the heat burning her face—”some dried fruit, some bandages, a jar…” She uncorks the jar and sniffs it, her nose wrinkling as she sets it aside. “Maybe talk to Linhardt about what’s in that,” she mumbles to herself.

Annette crosses her arms, a restlessness flickering under her skin at seeing someone rooting through her belongings, and glowers. “It’s just a salve for burns and swelling.”

“We still have to make sure it’s not poison or something,” Vanessa explains. “What if you were sent to assassinate someone?”

Annette could laugh at the irony of _her_ being implicated as an assassin, but she swallows any traces of awful, sarcastic amusement lest she be accused of even more espionage. “Can you hurry this up?” she demands instead, her foot tapping as if it’ll do anything to relieve her frenetic, urgent energy.

“A hair brush,” Vanessa continues as if she hadn’t heard Annette. She tugs on the handle - does she expect a hidden blade inside it or something? - before handing it to her. “You’ll probably need this, though Captain Bergliez won’t care if you look presentable or not.”

Her face warm with self-consciousness, Annette pats down the tangled mess that is her hair, but not without complaining, “It was that Pegasus ride!”

Vanessa, her hair tucked inside a half-helm, shrugs. “I’m accustomed to it,” she says. “Now…what’s this?” She pulls Annette’s journal from the bag and, to her horror, flips through it. “Coded communication?”

Annette’s fingers curl into fists at her sides so she doesn’t give into the urge to snatch the journal away. “No,” she grits out, “they’re not. Now give that back so I can—”

She promised Felix she’d let him read it.

Vanessa frowns, looking far too skeptical, but the letter tucked between the pages catches her interest. She unfolds it, her eyes scanning its contents before she decides, “Well, it’s up to Captain Bergliez to determine if you’re really spies or just unfortunate travelers.”

“That letter—”

“Are you carrying any weapons?” Vanessa wonders then. “I would rather not search you for those.”

Annette sighs but relinquishes her dagger. “I want it back after I talk to your captain,” she says.

“If he agrees you’re not a spy,” she says with a nod. “Anything else?”

She crosses her arms and bites her lip before hesitantly admitting, “I’m a mage.”

“That explains this book and you looking like you wanted to blast Forde’s head off,” Vanessa says with what may be a giggle. “You might’ve done us all a favor; he’s so lazy, thinks he can paint while on duty.”

“I don’t have much of a reason to do you any favors,” Annette snaps before she can stop herself.

“You do if you don’t want to get dragged to Fort Merceus in shackles,” she warns her, amusement evaporating as she levels a sharp gaze at him. “Now come on, I’ll take you to Captain Bergliez.”

Her feet heavy - and regret for her sharp words, dreading retaliation, simmering in her stomach - Annette follows Vanessa towards a larger yet still simple canvas tent that can only belong to the platoon’s commander. She crosses her arms tightly, wondering if Forde returned to camp and if a healer has seen Felix.

Worry sharper than a knife stabs at her, so intensely Annette thinks she might actually be sick.

“Oh, fair warning about our captain,” Vanessa says just outside the tent’s opening. “He’s friendlier than you’d think, but he hates liars, so take care not to hide anything from him, all right?” She pats Annette’s shoulder as if that’s any kind of comfort - as if comfort is much use to her now - and announces, “Captain! We’ve captured a couple travelers we suspect may be Kingdom spies!”

“Vanessa!” The scraping of metal rings from within before a man around Felix’s height pokes his head out of the tent, blinking blue eyes and staring from his own soldier to…Annette. “Oh,” he observes, “you already separated them too.”

Vanessa salutes smartly and offers, “Of course, sir.”

The captain - Bergliez? - rests his hands on his hips and squints at Annette. “You’re a spy, huh?” he says, tone offensively incredulous. “You’re kind of…not what I’d expect of one.”

Annette tries not to be insulted in case it makes her look even more like a spy, but she doubts she manages it for the irritation flickering in her chest. “Thanks,” she says. “I’ve always wanted to be told I’d make a terrible spy from a man with blue hair and the noisiest armor I’ve ever seen or, I mean, heard.”

He blinks, and for a beat she worries that maybe she let her tongue get the best of her and that wasn’t such a good idea while facing down an Empire commander who may or may not hold Felix’s life in his hands, but then he comments, “I guess the best spies are the least likely ones, huh?” He glances past Annette towards Vanessa. “I’ll talk to her. Thanks, Vanessa! You and Linhardt can deal with her partner.”

Vanessa passes Captain Bergliez Annette’s journal and letter. “Actually, sir, about that—”

“My friend’s injured badly enough he passed out from blood loss,” Annette explains in a rush. Her chest tightens anew, and she grips the fabric of her dress to keep from seizing the captain by his breastplate and shaking understanding into him. “You have to heal him, and we’re not spies, so you have no reason to let him die and—”

“Hey, relax, Miss!” Captain Bergliez speaks in a mild tone and raises his hands to soothe her. “We have to talk to him too, right? So we’ll talk to both of you and—”

“You can’t talk to a dead man!” Annette shouts.

The captain stares at her for a heartbeat, looking unperturbed about getting yelled at by a captured suspected spy. “Hey, Vanessa, how bad is the other guy?”

“He’s…bad,” Vanessa admits. “He was unconscious and it looks like he suffered a stab injury to his gut. Even if he wakes up, I doubt he’ll—”

“Tell Linhardt to do what he can for him,” Captain Bergliez decides, though his eyes never leave Annette’s face. “Can’t exactly bring him to justice if he dies first, right?”

Annette holds a breath, hardly daring to believe someone who is, by all means, an enemy will heal Felix. “Um, Captain—”

“Oh, uh, right.” He dismisses Vanessa then turns fully towards Annette. “If you want, we don’t have to do this now. We won’t get much talking done if you spend the entire time yelling at me because you’re worried.”

“Then can I see him instead?” Annette wonders.

“Uh…sorry, no.” The captain rubs the back of his neck and smiles a little sheepishly. “We’ve gotta keep you apart until we make sure you’re not spies.”

She sags but says, “Then let’s just get this interrogation over with.”

Inside the tent he sits on a low camp stool in a minimally furnished space where the most ostentatious thing is the plate armor he still wears. A couple axes lie across the floor with a pair of gauntlets.

Captain Bergliez thumbs through her journal with a furrow on his brow, and Annette gets her first real look at him. He looks broad-shouldered even under his armor, but she doubts he’s any older than her despite holding command.

But does he hold any _authority_? She can’t help wondering with how almost…casually he addressed Vanessa.

She shifts from foot to foot, waiting for him to say something…only to grow impatient and clear her throat. He looks up at her and asks, “So…are you a spy?”

“No,” she says immediately.

“Then what were you doing in Empire territory so close to the border?” he wonders.

“Traveling,” Annette tells him with a scowl. “What else?”

Captain Bergliez shuts her journal and sets it down (the more people whose eyes stain it before Felix has the chance, the more her gut twists and turns and tumbles with anxiety). “Look, you probably noticed that things don’t look good with the Empire and Kingdom right now—”

“Obviously,” Annette says. “What’s your point?”

“You gotta cooperate with me if you want us to let you and your friend go,” the captain tells her. He pats the cover of her journal. “You write poetry?”

She inhales to calm her rattling nerves and stuttering heart. “They’re songs,” she admits, “but maybe not very good ones.”

“Don’t undersell yourself, Miss,” he says, “but…I guess they’re not important.”

Annette doesn’t tell him Vanessa speculated they could be coded messages, because they’re _not_ important. She crosses her arms and examines a hole in the canvas under her feet.

“So where are you headed to?” Captain Bergliez asks.

“Gloucester in the Alliance.”

“Why?”

She presses her lips together to keep from screaming her frustration. “I’m to marry Count Gloucester’s son,” she confesses.

“Congrat—wait.” His eyes widen. “You’re a noble?” When Annette offers him a shallow nod - and nothing else - he rubs his face and groans, “This is not good, no, but…hold on.” He looks up at her. “And you’re off without an escort?”

A sigh escapes Annette, her eyes drifting down and her fist clenched over her heart as if that’ll do anything for the pain settling in it. “He got…stabbed.”

“So the man with you is your only escort?” the captain confirms. When Annette nods again, he wonders, “Why would your family send you to get married with just one man for escort?”

Oh, well, Annette knows the true answer here, but not the one that will make her look less suspicious, because even if he knows nothing of the Emperor wanting her dead badly enough she would send an assassin after her, she doesn’t want to enlighten him about that either.

She swallows, wiping her sweaty palms on her skirts, and explains, “Well, my uncle hoped it might be quicker and safer if we traveled small and light.” She doesn’t have to force the regretful smile onto her face, not for the tug in her chest. “He didn’t want a big party cutting into other territories in case we were seen as a threat, but obviously he was wrong about it being…safer.”

“So who attacked you?”

“A, um, a thief,” Annette lies, hoping she sounds more convincing than she feels, or at least that their unfamiliarity works in her favor.

“A thief?” Captain Bergliez echoes. Anger flickers across his face, and Annette’s heart skips a beat, fearing he’s caught her in the lie until his gaze drifts to her neck and she remembers how the assassin…grabbed her. “What was he after?”

“M-my dowry,” she says in a rush. “W-we had to travel light, but we still carried the gold in our belongings, and the th-thief had been trailing us for a while but before we could try to lose him he attacked.”

“And your escort got stabbed defending your dowry?”

“No, no,” Annette argues. She winces - she could kick herself for wanting to argue _this_ point, of all things - but insists, “My escort’s a little protective and jumpy”—true—”so he thought the thief was trying to kill me”—unfortunately true—”rather than just take the coin.”

Captain Bergliez winces, and she dares to hope it’s out of sympathy. “Your escort sounds like a pretty good guy,” he notes. His gloved hand curls into a fist as he stands. “I can’t believe someone would kill just for gold…”

Annette squirms, her heart racing, fearful that if she says anything he’ll see through her.

“What happened to the thief?” he wonders.

“Oh, um, well, my escort killed him,” she says. She barely believed it herself yet; her head still spun, dizzy from colliding with a tree, and she missed the instant Felix finished the assassin and paid his dead body no attention while so focused on keeping him alive.

“You at least get your gold back?” Captain Bergliez asks, his tone sympathetic.

“Er, um, the thief didn’t manage to steal it,” she says. Any gold they carried was, to Annette’s knowledge, safely stowed in Felix’s tote (though doubtless Forde or Vanessa or any of these soldiers would’ve searched it by now).

“Oh, glad to hear that much! But…” Any trace of a smile on the captain’s face fades as he scratches his ear and confesses, “Sorry, but it’s just…your story’s unbelievable. Do you have any proof?”

Annette might actually scream. As it is she holds in her magic on reflex, wind stirring at her feet though she doesn’t quite summon it. “I do,” she says through gritted teeth before pointing at the letter lying folded on his table. “It’s right there in front of you because your soldier confiscated it!”

At last he spares a glance for the letter - why spend so much time on her journal when it’s _right there_? - and picks it up. He hums thoughtfully while scanning its contents from top to bottom, his lips shaping the words as he reads.

Her blood rushes past her ears while she waits and finds herself grateful that Ashe thought to give it to her before she fled.

Ashe…a protector and a friend dead. If Felix goes that way too, Annette doesn’t know what she’ll do.

“So, uh, Count Gloucester is gonna be your father-in-law, huh?” Captain Bergliez says, and if she doesn’t know any better she might think he sounds nervous.

“Yes,” she says, though her stomach knots with dread at the reminder.

“Not one I’d wanna cross,” he admits. “He’s pretty tough on criminals though so maybe he’d have some good words about your thief.”

Annette bites her lip and, unsure what else to say or do, nods. “So…are you satisfied that my escort and I aren’t spies?”

“Yes, I think so,” says the captain. He offers her a smile that makes his eyes crinkle almost sweetly.

“Then can I see him?”

“Uh, better not,” he says. “He’s probably bad off.”

“But—”

“I’ll call Vanessa back over,” Captain Bergliez cuts her off. “She’ll find you a place to sleep and something to eat and a salve for the bruises on your neck—”

Annette touches her neck self-consciously; the assassin had still managed to mark her before Felix struck him.

“—and maybe in the morning we can chat about what to do with you and your man, all right?”

Her face flushes hot, and she sputters, “H-he’s not my—I’m _engaged_. He’s just my—my escort, I hired him to—I mean, my _uncle_ hired him t-to see me safely to my wedding, to someone else, not to him.”

“Um…right, I got that,” the captain agrees with a confused raise of an eyebrow. He walks past her to the flap of his tent and shouts for someone to fetch Vanessa.

Annette waits behind him, wringing her skirts like a wet cloth she’s determined to squeeze dry, like a pair of invisible hands don’t wring her heart and fail to shake out all the emotions trapped within.

She knows she won’t sleep tonight while Felix’s fate hangs by a thread.

* * *

His life balances on the edge of a sword, and it always has. Maybe on some level he knew he would die to an enemy’s blade, when he finally reached the limit of his strength and speed, when he met a foe that outclassed him, when his will to survive faltered and he no longer cared if he lived or died.

_“You died like a true knight…”_

A half-forgotten voice and its ill-remembered sentiment echoes through the fraying threads of his thoughts. _No,_ he wants to say, to shout, _he won_ _’t, he hasn’t, not yet!_

But maybe he hurtled towards that breaking point, that sense of apathy where no battle, no fight, no challenge gave him that sense of satisfaction or triumph he sought for almost half of his life, but—

Something - or some _one_ \- stopped him.

 _“You promised,”_ a heart-rending voice trickled through the dense cloud enveloping whatever still lingered of his mind.

Felix didn’t - _doesn_ _’t_ \- want to be like his brother. He refuses to die for anyone, but maybe he can live for someone instead.

 _“Don’t leave me,”_ the voice cries, and Felix, a captive to it, obeys.

* * *

Metodey wakes in the dark, to the warm crackling of a fire and the sharp, acrid scent of dark magic. His flesh right next to his heart burns as intensely as the flames as if someone ran him through with an untempered sword.

He’s alive. Shouldn’t he be…dead?

Anger and hatred in equal measure make his blood run even hotter. He grits his teeth against the stoking blaze in his chest and rolls onto his side and curses the woman he failed to kill and her… _valiant_ protector.

Thrice one of them foiled him, foiled Her Majesty’s careful plans. His fingers curl into fists, his nails sharp as claws digging into his palms, digging into his flesh in lieu of the woman Her Majesty wants dead.

Dead, dead, _dead_. Not like Metodey, _never_ like Metodey, not like—

“You’ve finally awoken,” a chilling voice that sends a shiver down his spine announces. “I am so glad you have seen fit to stop wasting my time.”

Metodey thinks to look up to a figure illuminated by the flames. Her Majesty’s lapdog - how he hates him - stands over the campfire with his hands held over it, to cast a spell or simply to warm them, he doesn’t know. But a snarl curls his lips and he hisses, “Oh, it’s you, how—”

“Am I to assume you were foolish enough to be stabbed with your own blade?” the lapdog says. Shadows dance across his face, making him look gaunt and paler than death - and in Her Majesty’s circle he’s the one who heralds it.

Not Metodey, not really; no one walks in fear of him, not even a nobody sellsword. That realization tastes foul on his tongue.

“I suppose your silence is as much a confirmation as anything else,” the lapdog continues. Wood pops in the fire, sparks floating into the air. One hisses into smoke against his long coat, and Metodey can’t tell if the smell wafting from him is that or an omnipresent cloud of dark magic residue.

“W-what do you _want_?” Metodey sneers. He finally manages to sit up with a hand resting over his chest and the lump of coal nestled somewhere between his lungs. Soft bandaging greets his fingertips. “Have you come to gloat?” he demands of Her Majesty’s _favorite_ lapdog. “Or have you come to steal _my_ mission for yourself?”

“I am afraid you no longer have a mission for anyone, much less me, to steal, Metodey.”

He stiffens then, something like fear - not that Metodey remembers fear well enough to recognize it! - rising like bile in his throat. “No mission to steal?” he scoffs. “You must be mistaken. I ensure the Dominic girl will die, and”—he imagines his fingers tightening around her protector’s throat—”that sellsword of hers, but first, just like I promised him, I’ll kill her as Her Majesty ordered in front of him just to remind him he couldn’t save her from me.” He laughs, laughs so hard pain wracks his chest and the lapdog levels him with a withering glare.

“Are you implying a sellsword bested you?” the lapdog wonders almost skeptically. “How…unlikely. Her Majesty had such high hopes for you, though it seems I was correct thinking they were undeserved.”

“I—”

“Her Majesty has no more need for you on this job,” he cuts through Metodey’s protest. “I have treated you with antitoxin and seen fit to bandage the worst of your wounds, so as soon as you are well you are to report to Enbarr.” The lapdog turns his back to him, his message delivered.

Perhaps he’s less a lapdog…and more a messenger pigeon.

Either way, Metodey leaps to his feet, undeterred by the stiffness in his legs after lying sprawled and injured on the ground. His heart races, tight and painful and so very _desperate_ , as he raves, “That is _my_ task Her Majesty gave me _personally_ , and I intend to see it through.”

The pigeon ruffles his feathers, staring down his beak as if Metodey is little more than a worm caught under his talons. “You’ve had long enough to rectify your failure,” he pronounces. “You are lucky that Lady Edelgard is far more forgiving than your first masters, although”—his lip curls into a ruthless smile—”perhaps I can convince her to return a servant as useless as yourself to Thales?”

Metodey remembers his fear then. Failure, failure…failure would be even worse to report to Thales.

The sellsword is to blame, oh, how he hates him for standing in his path to fulfill Her Majesty’s will.

“Worry not,” says the pigeon. “Miss Dominic’s life is still in our hands, and this task will be completed with or without you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one day i'll write a Felix pov that does not get weird and philosophical. also I do love me the occasional random monologuing villain viewpoint...
> 
> Forde and Vanessa shamelessly named after the Sacred Stones characters. Hubert shamelessly not named at all


	10. no matter how many times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They cross a bridge when they get to it, as one does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Half of this chapter did not exist in the first draft of the fic. a funny thing that happens when i don't start posting immediately is i end up wanting to add stuff or change everything ~~may or may not be a good thing~~
> 
> ANYWAY please enjoy!

Annette doesn’t sleep after Captain Bergliez clears her of any charges of spying. Instead she lies awake on a borrowed bedroll in Vanessa’s tent - at least she sleeps soundly judging by the volume of her snores - and recites proofs in a feeble attempt to distract herself from worrying about Felix.

Linhardt, the platoon’s healer, assured her he was stable and asleep and would fully heal with rest and care before relinquishing her salve to smear over her own bruises, but Annette can’t dismiss her doubts with the same ease with which he gave her his report.

She gives up the ruse of sleep when the camp begins to come alive at dawn. Vanessa, still snoring after standing as a late-night sentry, doesn’t stir when Annette pokes her head out of the tent.

Pink paints the eastern horizon as the sun’s rays scatter across the sky. An easy breeze filters in through camp, and Annette shivers. Soldiers patrol by, preparing to break camp and continue their march to…where, she still doesn’t know. Captain Bergliez promised they’ll speak of her and Felix’s fate come morning, so she supposes he’ll summon her soon.

But from what she gleaned while speaking to Vanessa, the platoon patrols the border with the Alliance and heads east towards the Airmid River - in the same direction as Annette and Felix traveled. She wonders if Captain Bergliez will suggest his soldiers act as escort or if he’ll just let them go on their way as soon as Felix is well enough to travel.

She wonders which would be a better idea.

It was the Empire who attacked her and her uncles’ knights when they left Dominic; would the Empire be so bold as to attack one of their own platoons just to kill her?

With Metodey dead, would they even send anyone else after her?

Annette probably can’t rule out that possibility, especially while _in_ Empire territory; it would be a simple matter for Captain Bergliez to report to Enbarr or Fort Merceus claiming he detained two suspected spies before receiving orders to execute them immediately.

The Emperor wouldn’t have to explain herself to a low-level platoon commander.

So the sooner she and Felix set off on their own, the better their chances of escaping the Emperor’s notice, but for that to happen…

Annette’s gut twists; she doubts she’ll be eating any breakfast though she couldn’t bring herself to take in dinner despite being the first decent meal in front of her in days. She tugs at a loose thread in her sleeve only for her gaze to catch on a rusty brown stain on the hem.

Bile rises in her throat when she recognizes Felix’s blood.

She stands and, dusting herself off and ignoring the fact that Vanessa advised her not to venture into camp without a soldier accompanying her, walks away.

Every tent looks more or less the same to Annette, and she imagines it would be easy to get lost amid the orderly rows. They’re lucky a small platoon on patrol found them rather than someone or something more…nefarious. Even so, when Vanessa led her around last night, it was rather dark, so…

Annette can’t find the medic tent. She doesn’t even know where to start looking since they refused to let her see him last night. She tries to retrace her steps back to Captain Bergliez’s tent so she at least has a start, but that quickly proves fruitless.

Her face burns under the scrutiny of a hundred Empire soldiers who watch her walk past them with bemused expressions. One approaches her as she rounds what she’s _sure_ is the same supply wagon for the fourth time and taps her on the shoulder.

“Miss,” he says, blinking at her from beneath his half-helm, “are you lost?”

“No, I’m not lost,” Annette replies, though she very much is. She crosses her arms and scuffs her feet against the grass trampled by hundreds of hooves and boots. “I’m just touring the camp for future reference.”

“Where’s Vanessa?” he asks, peering around her as if he expects her to be standing just behind her. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’m not alone now that you’re here!” she insists. “Where’s my—I mean, where’s—”

“Miss Dominic,” a drowsy voice interrupts, “what are you doing awake so early?”

When Annette spins around Linhardt stands behind her, not bothering to conceal his yawn. He wears the uniform of a mage rather than a medic, though he works as the platoon’s healer.

He’s also probably Annette’s second favorite person at the moment.

She grabs his arm and demands, “Where’s my—my friend?”

Linhardt looks down at her, the only sign that he’s reacting to her manhandling a quirk of his brow. “In the medic tent,” he says. “He should be asleep, but I’m afraid he won’t rest much so long as he asks after you, Miss Dominic.”

Her fingers dig into his arm as her heart leaps. “He’s awake?” she says. A relieved smile pushes at her lips, and even her knees tremble with the force of it. “Where is he? I want to see him in case you’re lying to me.”

“Very well,” Linhardt agrees far more easily than she expected, “but please let go of my arm. I’m not as strong as I look.”

To Annette he doesn’t look particularly strong at all, not engulfed with his billowing robes and the bags decorating his eyes, but if he is a mage like she suspects he must actually _be_ stronger than he looks.

Annette knows something about being underestimated, and it never ceases to frustrate her. Linhardt, however, seems happy enough to use being underestimated to his advantage.

Not that she wants him to drag her to Felix anyway. She can walk perfectly fine on her own power, and she…needs Felix to see her alive and well.

She won’t abide by any talk of failure from him, or how he’s a terrible bodyguard to her, not anymore when he’s the reason Metodey lay dead with a sword through his chest.

“Oh,” Linhardt says as he leads her through the camp, past soldiers collapsing their tents and bundling the canvas for travel, “by the way, I was curious. Who’s Metodey?”

A chill creeps over Annette, and she has to turn her face so he won’t see shock cross it. “He’s, um, he was the—the thief that assaulted us,” she claims. “He wasn’t in his right mind, so he kept shouting his own name.”

“I see,” Linhardt says. “I wondered if perhaps you had another traveling companion, but it seems I was mistaken.”

“Why…?” Annette asks, wary. Despite his drowsiness, he seems awfully perceptive.

“Oh, well, your friend kept cursing him and calling him some nasty names I’m a little too polite to repeat,” he explains with a wry smile. “Funnily enough, I never thought I’d consider myself polite, and yet—”

“W-what?” she stutters. Her chest tightens with renewed worry. “Why would he do that? And why would you think he would’ve been a traveling companion?”

“Perhaps if he betrayed you.” Linhardt shrugs, apparently unperturbed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, but if I must speculate, when your friend woke and didn’t find you, he assumed the worst.”

“Then that’s an even better reason for me to see him,” Annette insists. She takes Linhardt’s arm and tugs him after her, her pace urgent and her heart racing in her throat. “Where are we going?”

He doesn’t bother fighting her, but he sighs before saying, “It’s the tent with the stool just outside it.”

“Thank you,” she says, at least remembering some semblance of her manners, but upon reaching the tent she lets go of Linhardt and lifts the flap.

The last person she expects inside is Captain Bergliez himself, sitting on the floor with his legs and arms crossed beside a bedroll hosting—

“Felix!” Heat pricks at Annette’s eyes as she stumbles inside and falls beside his bedroll. She wraps her arms around his neck, the relief at seeing him sitting upright forcing a sob from her.

He freezes for but a heartbeat before he returns her embrace with his arms around her back, holding her just as tightly as he did that stormy night in their tent, his body warm and _alive_ beneath the thick bandaging wrapping his bare abdomen.

Annette buries her face against his shoulder to muffle another sob, even now conscious of their audience. He squeezes her a little tighter, his strength startling after she feared for his survival not even a day ago, and mumbles so his blessedly warm breath caresses her ear, “You’re all right.” His hand catches the back of her head and roughly strokes the awful mess of her hair. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

“What?” She pulls away from him with a sniff and rubs at her eyes with the heels of her hand. “W-why would you be sorry?”

“For making you cry.” He doesn’t meet her eyes, but she doesn’t miss the bruise that still blooms across his jaw, or his swollen lip. His gaze slides to her throat, the barest hint of a scowl twisting his lips when his fingertips brush against her bruised neck.

A sigh escapes her, and she catches his chin to tilt his head to the side, her thumb skirting over his busted lip. “Don’t apologize for that,” she chides him. “Apologize for making me worry about you instead, you fiend!”

At last his eyes flick up to hers, and she smiles to see how bright they are. “Sorry about that then,” Felix says, actually sounding contrite. “I’m…you’re all right, except for…those.”

She nods and starts, “I’m fine, thanks to—”

Her breath catches when he catches her hand, when he doesn’t pull away.

“Sorry to interrupt your, uh, reunion,” Captain Bergliez cuts in, “but maybe we ought to talk about what to do about you two.”

A livid blush heats Annette’s face, and suddenly she’s too embarrassed to even think of looking at Felix. She drops her hand and clasps both in her lap, as if to hold his warmth in her palm.

Felix crosses his arms, mirroring the captain’s posture, and nods. “Yes, it’s time,” he says. “Are we prisoners?” He turns his sharp, clear gaze onto him.

Annette sucks in a breath at his abrupt question, but Captain Bergliez doesn’t seem to mind.

“Not really,” he admits, “but you were trespassing on Empire territory, so we can’t just let you go.”

Felix’s yellow and black jaw twitches. “Then what do you intend to do with us after going through all the trouble of healing me?”

“Well, that’s the thing.” The captain smiles almost sheepishly, and now that her worry for Felix has (somewhat) abated, Annette finds it in her to wonder how a man like him even… _became_ a platoon commander, low-level or not. Though if memory serves Bergliez might be the name of a major Empire house… “We’re patrolling the border with the Alliance just on our way to the Airmid River, and since Gloucester territory’s in the same direction, you two can tag along.”

“Tag…along?” Annette echoes, unable to believe what she’s hearing. A captain loyal to the Emperor that wants her dead…is offering to escort her to the Empire’s borders.

She could laugh at the irony if her heart had room left for more emotions.

“Sure, why not?” Captain Bergliez says with a bark of laughter. “Don’t worry, I talked it over with Linhardt and Vanessa.”

Annette can think of about five reasons _why not_ just off the top of her head, and given time she’s sure she’ll come up with at least five more. Even through a sideways glance at Felix, she knows a similar battle must be raging in his head judging by how his eyes slip shut and how he grimaces.

“That’s not a—”

“We accept!” Annette interrupts Felix anyway. When he stares at her with incredulity in his wide eyes, she hastily adds, “I don’t think we have much choice, Felix.”

A scowl twists his lips, but then he gives a terse nod of acceptance. “I still want my sword back.”

Captain Bergliez sighs. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says.

“How will I defend myself and Annette if your soldiers are attacked?” Felix demands.

“You’re wounded, right? I wouldn’t expect you to be forced to fight.”

“I will if Annette’s attacked,” he insists, his eyes dark with anger.

Annette tries to soothe him with a hand on his bare arm. She squeezes gently, at least until his gaze flicks to her. “It’s, um, I think we’ll be…fine,” she says, despite not being sure herself.

Felix shakes his head but says, “It doesn’t look like we have much of a choice then.” He levels a glare at Captain Bergliez. “If she gets hurt while I’m convalescing, I’ll k—I’m holding you responsible.”

Annette blinks, almost surprised at how…diplomatic Felix could sound.

And, a little, warm that he defended her with such verve. It’s almost sweet, she thinks, even if she can handle herself.

(She’ll have to protect him in turn, especially while he recovers.)

“If she gets hurt while with us, I’ll be plenty mad myself,” Captain Bergliez offers, but when Felix doesn’t look the least bit mollified, he says, “You have some escort, Miss. I bet he’d be fun to spar with in good health.”

He leaves them alone after that, or as alone as they can be in the midst of a technical enemy’s war encampment. The sounds of camp breaking cause a din beyond the confines of the medic tent, and before leaving the captain warned them they’d have to travel on foot like the majority of his men (unless Felix preferred a wagon, which he promptly denied despite his condition; Annette couldn’t blame him though she’ll chide him for it later, she’s sure).

But they may as well be deaf for all the attention they pay the world outside the tent.

“This is a terrible idea,” Felix says. He buries his face in his hands, muffling a hiss against his palms. “We are literally in the belly of the damn beast.”

Annette’s stomach twists with guilt; wasn’t she the one who flagged down Kyle out of desperation? “I’m sorry,” she says. “Maybe if I could heal properly we wouldn’t have needed—”

Felix’s fingers close around her wrist, drawing her attention up to his face. “Do _not_ blame yourself,” he scolds her without hesitation. “You did what you could for me; I just wasn’t careful enough—”

“Not you too, Felix,” Annette sighs. “Just…no, fine!” She waves her free hand - content to let Felix hold onto her wrist, wondering if it grounds him as much as it does her - and says, “Let’s… _not_ move blame around because if anyone’s to blame it’s Metodey, right? So for now let’s just…see what happens and then if the worst does we’ll figure something out.”

Felix rakes his fingers through his hair, which hangs loose to his bare shoulders. “I don’t know if we can afford that,” he admits, his tone rife with frustration. “At best traveling with a whole platoon will slow us down, and at worst it’ll give the Emperor long enough to send orders for the captain to kill you.”

“It’s not like we have much choice,” Annette retorts. “We’re essentially prisoners, and you’re in no condition to travel, much less fight, and I—I don’t know how to heal you.”

“I-I know,” Felix agrees. He rests his elbow on his knee and, to her surprise, laughs ever so slightly. “What a mess we’re in.”

Annette smiles, if only because him smiling, let alone laughing, is such a rarity she can’t help but return it, and sings, _“No matter how many times, you’ll make another mess. But you still clean it, because you really like that dress.”_

Felix snorts but leans towards her, and she shivers when his fingers brush hers. “Is that one of your laundry songs?”

Her face warms, but her smile doesn’t falter when she retorts, “You’ll never let my song journal go, will you?”

He shakes his head, and Annette wonders if the villain heard anything she said to him when she feared his dying.

* * *

“How long does it take to cross the Airmid River if you fly over it?” Caspar asks Vanessa when she brings him a message from the Pegasus courier that just landed in the middle of their camp.

Vanessa hums, tapping her chin in thought, and says, “Not very long at all. About as long as it takes me to knock Forde on his backside.”

Caspar chuckles and says, “So faster than I can knock Linhardt down, got it.”

From where they stand at the edge of his command’s encampment he can see the Great Bridge of Myrrdin and its fortifications. The Empire holds the western bank, but the Alliance’s Houses Riegan and Gloucester share control of the Bridge itself.

At least they did last time Caspar checked. Responsibilities change hands so often within the Alliance it makes his head spin when Linhardt insists he try to keep track of them.

“Did they leave?” Caspar wonders then. He’s sure Vanessa knows who he’s talking about, but he still adds, “Those two, the travelers.”

“Forde escorted them to the western tower,” she replies. “He got back right before the courier from Enbarr touched down.”

Caspar turns to her, satisfied with his fill of the view. It’s lovely and always tugs at him like it beckons him to cross into an unfamiliar land rather than to simply just…look, especially while the sunset turns the river into a stream of lava.

The Bridge of Myrrdin itself is nice too, he supposes, but he’d rather stand on it looking down the river than stare at it obstructing his view of the Airmid.

“So what did that courier bring anyway?” he wonders. They retreat back into camp, to the sound of soldiers beginning to relax after the day’s march. They salute him as he and Vanessa pass, and he offers them a smile and a nod and bids them a good rest in response.

“It’s just a message from the Emperor,” she says. She passes a scroll sealed tight with a lump of black wax indented with the Empire’s two-headed eagle…or he assumes that’s the shape of the indentation, it’s a little hard to tell.

Caspar cracks the seal and unwinds the scroll. It’s not so dark yet he can’t read it, so he skims the commands within:

_To Captain Caspar von Bergliez,_

_By order of Her Majesty Emperor Edelgard von Hrezvelg, you are hereby instructed to detain and kill Annette Fantine Dominic of the Kingdom territories and any companions of hers should you come across her within Empire borders. Enclosed is a sketch of Miss Dominic_ _’s likeness, and it is believed she travels with a young knight of the Kingdom as escort._

_From the desk of Emperor Edelgard._

Caspar crumples the letter while anger rises in him and makes his spine stiffen. “You don’t think that woman was a spy after all, do you, Vanessa?”

She blinks, startled, but asks, “Is there something implying she is in that message?”

He offers it to her to read, her eyes widening the further down the paper they travel. “Oh, um…I don’t know what to say, Sir, but I still doubt she was a spy.”

“I do too,” he agrees, “but I have a feeling they were hiding something.” Caspar hadn’t felt any deceit from their brief prisoner when he interrogated her, and even now he’s inclined to believe that…she doesn’t deserve whatever the Emperor would visit on her.

Not like her escort would let him.

Caspar can probably take him, he thinks, especially while still recovering from his wounds, but…does he even have a reason to fight either of them?

She was just a desperate young woman frightened for her fiance—wait, no, she was worried about her companion, who was escorting her to _meet_ her fiance, or something like that. Either way, it doesn’t matter to Caspar anymore, and as far as he’s concerned since receiving the Emperor’s new orders they have yet to come across a woman by the name of Annette Fantine Dominic.

* * *

“You said you’ve never been to Enbarr,” Annette says as they approach the fortifications on the west bank of the Airmid River, “but have you ever been to Derdriu?”

“Once,” Felix says. He gazes up to the top of the western tower, squinting at a soldier on patrol. Even on the western side of the bridge the army that controls it belongs to some faction of the Alliance.

It’s not enough to ensure he rests easy while still so close to an Empire platoon no matter how…accommodating its captain.

At least he has his sword and the rest of their belongings back. His hand rests comfortably on the hilt as he and Annette walk past the tower, past Alliance soldiers on duty. The Bridge of Myrrdin is a major thoroughfare between Empire and Alliance, but travelers and merchants don’t come by as frequently as they once did while tensions in Fodlan rise.

“What’s it like?” Annette wonders. “I’ve always wanted to visit because I’ve heard it’s so pretty in spring and summer.”

“It’s hot in summer,” he offers, wrinkling his nose. “It’s right on the water so there’s no relief from the humidity.”

Her hair lifts with an invisible breeze, like the wind answers her call without her summoning it, the sight enough to take his breath away. “It wouldn’t be so bad if I can just blow all the moisture away,” she claims with a mischief-laced smile. Her small hand rests on his elbow, and for a heartbeat it might look like they’re just a married couple on holiday.

“Maybe—” Felix starts, only to choke on any words he can say. A soldier bearing a shield emblazoned with the Crest of Gloucester walks opposite them, and he pulls his arm away. _Maybe I can take you,_ he wanted to say, but Annette would never accept an idea like that.

Three days they traveled at the snail’s pace of a platoon patrolling a border, three days he recovered under the watchful eye of an Empire healer yet still so slowly the platoon’s pace set him on edge, three days Annette’s gaze always filled with…something, like fear and relief and more he couldn’t name all at once, whenever it landed on him.

Then at last they bid their goodbyes to their captors, and Annette grinned at the captain and at that Pegasus rider as if they were friends rather than enemies.

Annette has that way about her, Felix supposes. If the Emperor herself approaches them, she would probably offer to polish her crown just to have something to do, or to make herself useful.

Useful…his chest tightens when he thinks of how she berated herself for his own foolish injuries, how she resolved to study Faith and white magic to patch the gaps in her knowledge, and Felix, then, didn’t have the heart to remind her that soon she would no longer be with him to heal any wounds he might sustain.

He still feels the ghost of her touch against his bruised lip and how she fit into his arms after he woke.

“I know it’s not very late yet,” Annette tears him from his thoughts, “but our map says there’s a nice-sized town on the eastern bank a few miles downstream of the Bridge, so maybe we can find an inn to stay there tonight?”

Felix finds himself nodding before she’s even finished suggesting anything. “That’s a good plan,” he tells her. He frowns at the patched up hole in his coat, the one Annette did her best to mend with uneven stitching. “We could do some laundry and take baths.”

That, and maybe he can prolong their journey, even if for a few hours.

“Ugh, a bath!” Annette exclaims, throwing her arms into the air. She wanders towards the edge of the Bridge, where the wall is just too high for her to peer over the edge. “I feel like I’m almost desperate enough for one to jump into the river from here.”

Felix follows her, and his heart skips a beat at seeing her so close to the side in all her clumsiness, even if she’s too short to topple over. “At least at an inn they’d give you soap.”

“I know, I know,” Annette says, rolling her eyes, “although I’m sure one of these peddlers crossing here must sell some too.”

“Do you have a soap song?” Felix wonders.

“No,” she says, “but I suppose I _can_ consider composing one, just for you.”

A thrill fills him at her words, and he can’t stop his lips from twitching into a smile. “Why does a song for me have to be about soap?”

Annette’s hand closes around his wrist, and he finds himself being tugged along the bridge, closer to the opposite riverbank but slower than they would go if he set the pace. “It doesn’t have to be,” she tells him. “A song for you would have to be about”—her eyes travel down to his hip—”swords, obviously.”

“Swords?” He raises an eyebrow, though amusement still warms him. “I suppose I deserve that.”

“Swords aren’t the most interesting topic to sing about,” Annette claims.

“And soap is any better?” Felix retorts. When her cheeks flush pink, he pokes the most concentrated spot of color before he can think better of it. “Well?” he prompts. “When can I hear it?”

Annette’s cheeks puff out in defiance of his prodding. “When it’s written,” she says, “and if you keep distracting me, you’ll be waiting…a while!”

“Better make it before we reach—better make it quick,” he amends.

Felix watches her face fall, any trace of levity slipping away the way autumn leaves fall from tree branches. The prospect of the end of their journey pains her too, but there’s no relief in the realization that his misery has company.

They stand at the end of a bridge metaphorically and literally after crossing a river, and now they can’t turn back.

Alliance authorities wait to greet them on the eastern bank in a security tower. A bored-looking clerk dressed in a tunic bearing the Crest of Riegan rests her chin in her hand and says, “State your business in the Alliance.”

Felix glances at Annette, who shrugs before telling the clerk, “We’re, um, here to visit relatives!”

“Where do they live?” the clerk asks.

“Uh…Derdriu,” Annette lies, and she’s so terrible at it he begins to wonder what she told Captain Bergliez about why an assassin attacked them. “My mother is, um, sick, so we’re going to visit her.”

Felix takes the cue and wraps an arm around her shoulders as if to comfort her. It’s not that hard - he likes finding any excuse to touch her even if it leaves a hollowness in his chest when he forces himself to let go.

Annette leans into him, and the smile she flashes him - genuine or not, private or not - makes his heart skip a beat.

The clerk sighs and holds out a hand. “Can you pay the custom?”

Why is there always a _custom_? Felix rolls his eyes but reluctantly lets go of Annette - he should be grateful for the excuse - to dig through his tote and pull out enough coin to pay the amount.

They lapse into a heavy silence as they leave the Bridge of Myrrdin behind. They follow a road running parallel to the Airmid River, hidden behind levies to protect it against the worst of spring floods.

Annette doesn’t sing now so Felix doesn’t even have her soothing, distracting voice to blanket his thoughts. He keeps his fingers tight around the hilt of his sword lest he try reaching for her hand instead and longs for the closeness of their nights spent alone in a tent.

* * *

Annette’s relief when they reach the inn at that first town near the Bridge of Myrrdin is threefold:

First is her desperate need for a bath. While Felix wasn’t looking, she lifted her arm for a sniff and nearly gagged at her own odor. Her clothes need a good soak and scrub too, and blood still stains the front of Felix’s coat so obviously a few townspeople - including the innkeeper - shoot him a suspicious look.

Second is for a proper rest and for proper food. She’s tired of jerky and rations, and her back aches dreadfully. She can scarcely shrug or raise her arms over her head without wincing, and she almost longs for the soreness of a horse’s saddle, if only it meant she would’ve slept fewer nights on the ground rather than in a bed with a pillow supporting her head.

Third is…undeniably selfish, because if they carry on until dark, that would put them that many hours and leagues closer to their destination, and nearer to parting, and Annette isn’t so naive to think Felix will stay close.

She shouldn’t even _want_ him to, though that doesn’t stop her from savoring those few stolen hours and whatever time they have left.

Even if part of that time is spent in the dusty common room of the only inn in town.

Absent a proper bard or performer, a few patrons at the bar sing a rousing and drunken rendition of a popular Alliance folksong (so Annette assumes; she’s never heard it before), and their noise alone makes it difficult for her to try to converse with Felix. Which she doesn’t mind terribly at the moment as she’s too intent on making sure as much of the rabbit meat on her plate ends up in her stomach as possible.

Annette practically inhales her food - she doesn’t even _like_ rabbit skewers - before chasing it with a cider that runs warm down her throat. Eating lifts her spirits, at least marginally, and a smile tugs at her lips as she leans towards Felix, sitting straight-backed on the bench opposite her.

He finished even quicker than her, and from the way his eyes rove the common room she can’t tell if he’s looking for a server to ask for seconds or trying to pick out any sign of danger.

She follows his gaze, curious. The town is smaller than the Church settlement nestled in the mountains, and many of the people eating and drinking in the inn look like locals from how they sit around in knots. A few men clustered in a group in one corner look a little rougher, a little less groomed with whiskers and patches on their clothes, and with swords dangling from belts or bows slung across backs, and she idly wonders if they’re a small troupe of mercenaries.

One of them raises his head and meets her eyes. A leer pulls at his lips, and a shiver crawls up her spine at how almost…familiar it looks.

Annette tears her eyes away to look back at Felix. Her face warms when she catches him looking right back at her, and she bows her head to hide a shy smile.

It’s strange being shy around him now, after everything they’ve been through together, everything she knows about him and—

Maybe now, while they have an almost quiet night, she can push her luck and ask a little more.

“Can I ask you a strange question, Felix?” she wonders.

His eyes widen slightly, but to her surprise he tells her, “Anything.”

Annette clasps her hands in her lap, her heart skipping a nervous beat as she searches for some way to phrase it. “Would you, um, would you ever go back home to…Fraldarius?”

Felix doesn’t flinch, and she begins to wonder if she need not have braced herself. But his eyes slip shut as he frowns and admits, “I don’t know. Maybe I will, if I have a reason to.”

“Like what?” she wonders. “Do you miss your family?”

Felix stares at his empty plate, fiddling with one of the empty skewers. “Do you miss yours? You left them to marry into a stranger’s family.”

Annette blinks, surprised…though guilt makes her stomach clench, that she pried only for him to turn it back around on her. “Yes,” she says easily. “I miss my mother, and I miss my uncle even if he was always a little distant, and I miss Mercie and Ashe even though he’s—even though I’ll never see him again”—her voice trembles and her chest tightens, and she lowers her gaze—”and my father, I…” Her fingers automatically seek out her necklace, though nothing hangs from her neck. “It’s been years since I’ve even heard from him, yet I _still_ —”

“What’s this?” a man bursts in from behind her, and when she glances over her shoulder she spots one of the rough men she thought might be a mercenary standing over her with a tankard in hand. “Is your fellow bothering you, Miss?”

“What?” Annette says, too startled by his appearance to muster anything more eloquent. But a frown twists her lips. “No, I’m fine. We were just talking.”

Across from her Felix sucks in a breath, but her spine tenses too much for her to spare him a look.

“Ah, just talking?” The man sets his tankard down on the table beside her. “Mind if I join you after? I’ll make it worthwhile with a drink.”

“No, thank you,” Annette tells him. She offers him a tight-lipped smile, the better to convince him to be on his way and that she’s quite content enjoying a conversation with Felix alone.

The man smiles, flashing yellowed teeth. “I insist,” he practically cajoles.

She scowls, now more than a little annoyed, but before she can snap something reasonably off-putting Felix slides out of the bench and rounds the table, his own full tankard in hand. The man, taller and broader than him, eyes him with an unimpressed scoff. “What do you—”

“I have a drink for you here,” Felix tells him. He crashes the tankard over the man’s head.

The man falls back, either startled or because Felix put more strength into the blow than…necessary, his hand flying to his head. For a heartbeat, in their corner of the common room, silence reigns. Felix stands over him, eyes sharp and hard as the steel dangling from his belt. He steps sideways between the man and Annette, who recovers from her shock enough to jump off the bench.

The man straightens, hand lowering to reveal a shining red mark where the tankard connected with his hairline. He points at Felix and snarls, “You’re gonna pay for—”

Annette flings the contents of her own tankard at him, leaving him spluttering as cider drips down his face and into his shirt.

His eyes, dark and angry, land on her.

The man’s arms reach out towards Annette, but before she can so much as summon a wisp of a Wind Felix knocks him aside. He shoves her backwards and out of the way, roughly enough her breath catches with surprise and she trips over a chair.

Annette lands hard on her backside, the air knocked from her lungs and her heart jumping into her throat. She drags herself upright, growling when she _still_ trips over the chair on her way back up, but by then the man’s attention is entirely on Felix.

She can’t help flinching when his fist connects with Felix’s jaw. His head jerks away, but rather than recoil like she expects he stands his ground and grabs a fistful of the man’s shirt.

Distantly Annette’s aware of other inn patrons shouting for the innkeeper and whatever paltry security he employs, but the veritable brawl breaking out before her captures more of her attention. She doesn’t even bother standing while calling her magic and weaving it into a spell, intent on shoving the man away from Felix before he can do him anymore harm, before either of them can reach for their weapons and make a worse mess and attract more attention and—

“Sirs, that’s enough!” the innkeeper screeches right as Felix’s knuckles crack the man’s nose so sharply it’s a wonder his Crest hadn’t flared.

The man jumps back with a howl, and Felix lets him go and steps away, scowling as Annette finally makes it to her feet and approaches him. “Felix, are you—”

“Enough, enough, enough!” the innkeeper interrupts her, and a couple men armed with spears step into the fold. One shoves the man - the instigator, as far as Annette is concerned, and she spares him a glare she hopes incinerates him on the spot - backwards, but the other drops a hand on Felix’s shoulder and starts tugging him backwards.

“Get out!” the innkeeper cries, pointing between Felix and the man. He waves his finger in Felix’s face, but he only bats his hand aside. “I don’t want you here, spending your coin—”

“Will you give it back then,” Felix grumbles under his breath. His glare, full of an almost frightening heat, lands on the other man as he’s escorted out of the common room, but his eyes soften when they fall on her before his lips twist into a frown. “Did I hurt you when I—”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Annette assures him, though she’s sure she bumped her elbow when she fell. “I’m more—your _face_!”

A bruise already blooms over his jaw when mere days ago his lip was still busted from another punch. But he shrugs off her concern, and she’s utterly unsurprised when he mumbles, “I’ve had worse.”

She knows; _days_ ago he had worse, and he nearly bled out for it - for _her_.

“She can stay,” the innkeeper says then, nodding at Annette, “but I want you gone. Get out.”

Felix’s eyes widen, something like fear flickering through them. “What?”

“Felix, let’s just go,” Annette tells him. She grabs his hand - her gut churns when something damp and sticky like _blood_ touches her fingers - and tugs him away, ignoring the second man with a spear.

“At least go retrieve our belongings,” Felix says in a low voice as they slip out of the common room and through the inn’s entrance. They retreat past the yard too, until they loiter on the town’s main street.

It’s only mid-afternoon, but the shadows of buildings already darken it. People walk along it, finishing errands before leaving town or returning to nearby homes, but Annette pays no mind as she turns to Felix.

“Why did you even do that?” she demands, irritation flickering within her. She frowns at the nasty bruise on his face and raises his hand to find his knuckles as bloody as she suspected, though she doubts it’s with his own blood.

Felix wrenches his hand from her grip, and she tries not to let that hurt. “That bastard needed to learn to cut his losses,” he says, sneering.

“You still didn’t have to do that,” Annette says. “You _just_ healed from worse injuries, and I’m tired of you getting hurt just for—just stop!” She reaches up and lets her fingertips brush his darkening jaw, watches it tighten under her touch.

His eyes flick to hers as she turns his head just slightly, the tip of her thumb resting on his chin. Her face warms when she notices how…brazenly she touches him, as if they’ve never held each other.

“Felix,” she starts, right before she realizes she doesn’t know what she wants to say. To thank him for stepping between her and the man harassing her? To insist she was preparing to blow him away without a second thought? To apologize it got him kicked out of the inn and their only chance of bathing and sleeping in an actual bed until the next town?

Then Felix pulls away from her grasp, and her hand falls limply to her side. Not for the first time she wishes she knew even a single basic healing spell, not just to diminish any pain he might be in, but so that she could have a good reason to touch him.

Idly Annette wonders if her fiance would step into a fight for her just like that, or maybe he would simply let her handle it.

A sigh slips from Felix as he looks away from her, rubbing his jaw. “It’s not that bad,” he tells her. “Maybe I just needed some exercise after recovering.”

“Some exercise?” Annette echoes, her eyes wide and incredulous. But then she spies the utterly improbable twitch of Felix’s lips and snorts. “Oh my—Felix, was that a joke?”

“Maybe,” he says, not looking at her. “You don’t have to sound so stunned.”

A giggle bursts from her, not because she finds his words particularly funny, but because Felix telling any kind of joke startles her and adds to the absurdity of the whole situation. She laughs, drawing his gaze back to her until he smiles too.

“It’s not that funny,” he practically scolds, though he hardly sounds disapproving.

“I think I’m just surprised at you,” she admits. “I, um…” She trails off, wondering if she imagines the warmth in his eyes and—

Not that it matters. It doesn’t matter. Of course it doesn’t matter.

“I’m going to return to the inn,” she announces.

“What?” Felix says. “Why? We were kicked out.”

“ _You_ were kicked out,” Annette reminds him, injecting as much disapproval into her tone as she can. “But I would really like a bath and to sleep in a bed tonight, so I’m going to try and convince the innkeeper to let you back in.” She turns to go, flashing him one last smile, but pauses when his hand catches her wrist.

“Wait, Annette,” he says, his voice pitched almost to a whisper. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

She glances over her shoulder at him, brow furrowed. “Why not?”

“I don’t—I didn’t like the look of some of the men in there,” he admits with a scowl. “They looked…mean.”

“So are you,” she can’t help retorting, and when his nose wrinkles she laughs. “What? I already told you I’m not hiring anyone else.”

“That’s not it at all,” Felix complains. “Just—” He cuts himself off with a growl. “Fine. Just be careful and keep your dagger close.”

Annette grins and lifts her foot to tap her leg, where the dagger he gave her is tucked into her boot. “Don’t worry,” she says. “If I can’t convince the innkeeper, I’ll come right back.”

Except looking at him staring at her now like she’s a kitten someone kicked (maybe not far from the truth, albeit she’s not nearly as helpless) asking him not to worry is probably a tall order.

But he lets her slip away from him, though the heat of his gaze follows her all the way down the block and back to the inn.

The bell over the door rings in greeting, and she marches right up to the innkeeper behind his counter. When he glances up at her, he cuts off his own greeting to stare at her with wary eyes.

“Should I have kicked you out too?” he wonders.

“No, well, actually,” Annette says in as bright a voice as she can muster, “I was wondering if you might be persuaded to let my, um, my husband”—she doesn’t wince at her own lie or the ache in her chest at it, no she does not—”spend the night after all! I promise that I’ll make sure he stays in the room and doesn’t get into anymore fights.” She bats her eyelashes at him, though she’s always been abysmal at flirting, but when the innkeeper just sighs she hurriedly adds, “Look, that other man was bothering me, and my—my husband is a little overprotective, so—”

“No,” the innkeeper cuts her off, sparing her whatever other excuses she can come up with. He sets his quill down and regards her over the desk. “I don’t buy your promises, so either you stay here alone and he shacks up somewhere else, or you clear out too.”

Disappointment makes her heart heavy, but a wave of irritation sweeps it away. Her hands curl into fists at her sides, and she snaps, “Fine! We didn’t want to stay here anyway!”

Annette spins on her heel, intent on stomping out the door and returning to Felix despite her defeat before she remembers they left their belongings upstairs. She sags and turns back around, her face flushed with embarrassment as she avoids the innkeeper’s judgmental gaze. She takes the steps quickly, hiking up the hem of her dress to avoid tripping, and slips down the hall to the room they paid for.

She frowns when she finds it unlocked, because she could’ve sworn Felix locked it before they went back downstairs to eat. The door swings open on creaking hinges, at the same time something slams shut _inside_ her.

Her magic, gone.

Her heart skips a beat, but she has enough presence of mind to fumble to unsheathe the dagger from her boot and spin around.

She plunges it down blindly and feels the instant it cuts into flesh.

Someone screams, and when she cracks her eyes open she finds an unfamiliar man reeling away from her, clutching at a bleeding gash in his arm. “You b—”

“What do you want?” Annette demands, holding the dagger out in front of her. She’s sure her heart will launch itself from her chest any moment.

“Out of the way,” someone from behind him says, and he steps aside to allow a few more men to flood into the small room.

Her blood runs cold when the one in the front sneers at her, and a hint of silver hanging from his neck winks at her. “You—”

“Me,” says the mage who Silenced her. “You have a little weapon now too?” he notes, tone dripping amusement. “Do you even know how to use that?”

“Come closer and find out,” Annette growls, and her own ferocity surprises her.

“I don’t think I will.” A man behind the mage raises a crossbow and aims it right at her. “Now, be a good—”

Annette lunges.

A crossbow bolt strikes her right arm.

She stumbles as pain ignites under her skin, and she doesn’t know if the gasp that tears from her throat is startled or agonized. But the dagger slips from her grasp right as the men converge on her.

She opens her mouth to scream, as if Felix is near enough to hear, but before she can something - a boot? A fist? A knee? - connects with her abdomen and forces the air from her lungs. She falls to her hands and knees, coughing, until a mean hand wrapping around her uninjured arm forces her back to her feet.

Still Annette kicks at them, ignoring the fire in her arm as she swings her fist around. One catches it without so much as flinching, and they force her hands behind her back, never mind how she tries to twist to loosen their grips. “Let me go, let me go, let me—” She breaks off in a hoarse, pathetic whimper when one of them grabs her hair.

“The less you struggle,” says the mage from behind her, “the easier this will be on you and your man.”

Felix…did they grab him too? And she left him alone…and there’s no sign of these thugs’ leader here.

“W-where’s Miklan?” she wonders, wincing when she can’t turn her head. “Is he—Fe—” A hand claps over her mouth.

Annette weighs through the pluses and minuses of biting it - getting it off is a plus, but she doubts any of these men wash often enough from the smell of them - only for the mage to tell her, “You’ll find out soon enough.”

He forces a quill into her hands, and she barely registers him fumbling through her and Felix’s belongings before the tearing of paper fills the eerily quiet room. “Let go of one of her arms,” he tells the man holding her in place, and to Annette he commands, “Write.”

She does, swallowing frustrated tears the entire time, and glaring daggers every time writing the “wrong” thing earns her a stinging slap across the face. When she finishes he doesn’t even give her the chance to watch the ink dry, just tugs the paper from her hands. Annette considers driving the pointy quill nub into his eye until he snatches that away too and another man wrestles her arm back behind her.

And when she once more suffers the indignity of a sack stuffed over her head, she’s infuriatingly helpless to resist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing is really all about tying knots and somehow trying not to get all those strands tangled. and juggling them too. in the end we're all just dogs caught in our own leashes ;_;


	11. suddenly the deed is done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annette makes a good argument for why Path of Radiance let sages have knives as a secondary weapon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am running out of clever things to say about this fic, so i'll just settle with a warning that Miklan is EXTREMELY unpleasant and also crude and may or may not insinuate some...other unpleasant things (this fic is literally rated M for ~~Mature~~ Miklan)
> 
> a n y w a y enjoy the action!

Felix waits for Annette with little to occupy him but wondering what’s taking her so long to return. Either she comes back smiling to tell him she convinced the innkeeper - unlikely in his estimation, though seeing her smile would make the wait almost worthwhile - or grumbling about her failure or the innkeeper’s obstinacy.

He almost smiles at the thought, chest warm as if he swallowed a great gulp of the inn’s cider, but it fades fast as his mind cycles through everything since they set foot in this stupid town.

The mean men at the inn who seemed to watch their every move - the way they looked at Annette made something ugly and angry twist in his chest - and the one who actually dared to approach her…Felix’s hand curls into a fist. He stares at his cracked knuckles, the man’s blood now dried and crusted on his skin, and remembers how it felt driving it into his nose and hearing the telltale crunch of breaking bone.

Felix doubts he’s ever thrown a more powerful punch in his life, not even with the advantage of his Crest flaring.

While he waits, he lets his mind wander to the moments before that bastard tried to insert himself.

_“Would you, um, would you ever go back home to…Fraldarius?”_

He hadn’t known how to answer a question like that, and he still doesn’t even know how to talk or even think about his future anymore since Annette herself will no longer be in it within a few days.

_“Do you miss your family?”_

Felix wonders how different his life would be if he never left - or if he would even still be alive with a life that wasn’t his own.

Or maybe Annette was right, and it had always been selfish to think of his life as just… _his_.

He turned the question back around on her, spurred on by some petty part of him, but mostly because he didn’t know the answer to that question either. He doesn’t think he misses his father, but his brother - even the friends he broke ties with - is a different matter.

And she sounded almost heartbroken discussing her own family…

A wagon draped with a tarp rumbling by, its wheels loud against cracked paving stone, jerks Felix from his thoughts. He watches it go by, though a shiver of familiarity creeps down his spine when the driver’s eyes flick over to him. He straightens, hand falling to the hilt of his sword and stomach flipping with something like anticipation, and he makes to follow only for someone to collide headlong into him.

Felix recoils with a curse, rubbing his shoulder (doesn’t he have enough bruises?), while the man - his face round enough he can hardly be called that - he bumped glances at him with skittish green eyes. “Sorry,” he says, smiling sheepishly and tugging at the back of his silver hair. “I, um, should watch where I’m going.”

“You think?” he can’t help snapping, already on edge with his impatience.

The man blinks at him a few times. “Uh…yes. Anyway, I was actually looking for someone if you could—”

“Ask someone else,” Felix says. He waves a dismissive hand at him before deciding he’s waited for Annette long enough, the innkeeper’s sensibilities be damned.

He stalks back to the inn, shoving through the door. When the innkeeper looks up at the sound of the small bell, his eyes narrow. “You again,” he says. “I thought I told you—”

Felix doesn’t bother explaining to him. He steps through the entryway towards the stairwell, ignoring the innkeeper’s affronted shouts and threats to call the guard back or, dare he say, have him arrested by some local lord’s men-at-arms, wouldn’t he learn something from a night spent in a dungeon? His heart thumps painfully as he takes the stairs two steps at a time and strides down the hallway.

Their room door hangs open, ajar.

Felix wants so badly for Annette to have been distracted or to have lost track of time or even to have decided to take advantage of the inn’s bathhouse before returning to him, but he lost the ability to so naively hope the day he learned his brother died. And even with Metodey dead there’s still one known threat to both of their lives.

He keeps his sword loose in its scabbard as he nudges the door open and steps over the threshold. His feet sink into carpet, and when he looks down something dark stains the fabric.

Blood.

His breath sticks in his lungs, and it takes all his self-control not to bolt back outside and shake the innkeeper for his negligence or tear up the whole damn town searching for Annette. Instead he scans the room, searching for anything else amiss. Their bags still lean mostly undisturbed against the wall between the two beds, except for the two books tumbling out of hers, but his gaze catches on something sitting on one of the pillows.

Felix creeps towards it, body stiff with tension and unable to force himself to relax lest his spine snap in half should someone ambush him with a blade.

He recognizes Annette’s dagger, its silver blade bloodied.

Fear claws up his throat and makes it harder to breathe even before he reaches for the torn paper beside the dagger. He reads the words scrawled on:

_“A flash and then a big boom, suddenly the deed is done! My! What a great job I did! Who says cleaning isn’t fun?”_

He blinks, confused until he realizes these must be lyrics for one of Annette’s songs and a page…torn from her song journal.

This scarcely reassures Felix. His gut churns with anxiety, made worse by all the regrets flitting through his mind - why did he let her go alone? Why did he let her go at all? Had he really killed that assassin only to lose her some other way?

(Is Annette even his to lose?)

Felix flips the paper over.

The handwriting on this side matches Annette’s.

_Felix,_

_They're making me write this, and they can read what I’m writing so I can’t lie._

_It_ _'s_ _Miklan. Of course it’s him. Please_ _~~don~~_ _ ~~’t~~ _ _come after me. They_ _’re taking me to a small lake not far from town, it’s a league south and they say you should be able to make it there on foot. By sunset. They’re giving you until an hour after sunset, and they want you to come alone, and that’s when they’ll._

 _Please don_ _’t be_ _~~gallant~~ _ _stupid, Felix, just don_ _’t!_

_I_ _’m sorry. Thank you for everything._

_Annette_

A drop of blood stains the note, almost blotting out the shaky scribbles that shape her name, and the sight makes him sick to his stomach.

Felix crumples the note in his fist before smoothing it out again. His chest aches, and for a heartbeat it feels like it’ll collapse under the pressure. He traces Annette’s name with a fingertip before turning it over and rereading her song lyrics and—

What is he doing?

He shakes his head, a hiss slipping through his lips, and stuffs the note into his pocket alongside his brother’s iron spur. He’s not enough of a fool to think this is anything less than Miklan attempting to ensnare him, and he isn’t sure how he and his gang separated them so…thoroughly, but Felix will be damned if he doesn’t spring his trap.

Felix is scarcely as helpless as prey, and he’ll show Miklan the error he’s made underestimating him.

He takes their belongings with him and hooks Annette’s dagger on his belt; she’ll need it once they reunite.

* * *

Annette hates this.

She hates everything from the ropes binding her wrists at her back to the way her aching body rocks with every bump and pothole the wagon rumbles over. She hates the fear in her chest and the nausea stirring her gut, hates the rabbit skewers that threaten to emerge with every roil in her stomach. She hates Miklan, and his mage, and the men that associate with them. She hates the pain that flares in her arm every time the wagon crests another bump, she hates the Emperor for ordering her death just because she’s supposed to marry a nobleman she assuredly doesn’t love, and she even hates her uncle a little for making her.

Most of all, she hates that she’s _bait_.

She hopes Felix will come after her as much as she despairs of it.

Annette’s forehead falls against the side of the wagon bed with a groan. She feels like she’s right back where she started, back in a stuffy covered wagon after a frustratingly simple and _humiliating_ capture, only this time she’s alone.

She doesn’t know if she should be grateful for that or not.

Last time they dealt with Miklan, their escape was more of a fluke than anything, irony engineered by fate when Metodey himself was their accidental savior. But Felix killed Metodey, and unless Felix takes the bait…

The note she wrote with her own hand haunts her. If Felix follows, intent on rescuing her and walking right into another ambush, it’ll be her fault. She can’t imagine him triumphing with these odds, especially not without her help while there’s a barrier between her and her magic. A part of her wants him to just…cut his losses - she doesn’t even know how she’ll ever repay him anyway! - and leave her to save himself.

She’ll never make it to her destination to wed Count Gloucester’s heir, but what would even be the point if it costs yet another life like it did her entire escort? Her marriage is supposed to save lives, not end them, and Annette’s so tired of being a liability.

She doubts she can stomach watching anyone, especially Felix, bleed for her again.

Fear constricts her chest, like a wyvern’s tail wraps around her heart and squeezes tighter and tighter, like the time one of her older cousin’s tried to teach her how to swim but then the water closed over her head and she didn’t understand why she couldn’t breathe, like when Felix collapsed in front of her and his blood soaked her hands and his eyes wouldn’t open no matter how much she begged.

Then as now the truth of her own uselessness threatens to overwhelm her.

Annette probes for her magic again, though she knows it’s pointless until the Silence spell fades, and she’s sure that damn mage won’t be as quick to lower his guard as he was last time. She groans as the wagon flies over another pothole, and a hiss slips through her teeth when it jostles the arrow deeper into her arm. She tugs uselessly at her bindings and tries scooting backwards towards the back of the wagon, but another harsh bump tosses her into the air and makes her gasp with shock.

The wagon slows to a halt with a shuddering of wheels, leaving her grumbling and sore. She scrambles to sit up despite the heavy tarp covering the wagon and holds her breath, straining to hear the conversation outside.

“Unharness the mule,” a deep, familiar voice commands, muffled by the tarp. “We don’t want a repeat of last time.”

Ice freezes Annette’s spine, but her hands curl into fists as if Miklan himself stands before her and she can hurl a punch into his scarred face. Everything Felix told her about him jumps to the forefront of her mind and only lights an angry fire in her chest.

The tarp lifts with a rustle of fabric, and Annette feels a hint of a fresh, cool breeze washing over her face after someone yanks the sack off her head.

Miklan stands over her, lips curled into a sneer made uglier by the scar crisscrossing his face. “Welcome back,” he says. “Did you miss me?”

Annette glares at him while cycling through some inane plans in her head. She can jump and clock him with her head? Or maybe shove into him?

Then again he wears armor, and she doubts barreling into him with her petite frame will do much more than startle him (if that).

The sun turns his red hair into a crown of flame as he smirks down at her. “I think you know how this will go,” he notes, “especially since you left a note for the brat in your own hand.”

“I hate you,” she grits out through her teeth, though she barely hears her own voice for the pounding of her heart against her ribs.

“I don’t mind,” he tells her, “but I must confess, if he decides you’re not worth risking his own skin, I’d be fine with that too. These days, you’re worth more than a runaway ducal heir.” His eyes narrow, and any trace of false amusement melts away from his face. His thick, rough fingers find her chin and jerk her head up. “Who are you?”

Annette wrenches her chin from his grip. “I’m no one,” she lies. “I’ll be more trouble than I’m worth anyway. I’m awful to travel with, very high-maintenance. I eat more than three men and need frequent, um, washroom breaks, and—”

“I have no doubt you’re troublesome,” Miklan admits, crossing his arms over his breastplate, “but if you think we don’t have you in hand you’re pathetically mistaken.”

She tugs on her binding for good measure and wilts when they hold as tight as they did the last ten times she tried. “I—”

“What, you’re not going to mock me by telling me Fraldarius will kill me and rescue you?” Miklan wonders with a sardonic laugh. “You gave up on him? Well, bodyguard work is beneath a noble brat with a Crest like him, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Annette avoids his gaze, hating how his words, mocking in their own right, make her gut twist and her chest tighten, because as much as she so desperately wants Felix to keep away, the fact that he might… _hurts_.

“Now,” Miklan continues, heedless to her reaction, “I’ll only warn you once, but if you make one misstep between here and delivering you to the Empire, I won’t bother protecting you from my men. They can make you more of a pincushion than you already are or share you between them for all I care; I doubt your fiance will mind if he never gets a chance to meet and put a Crest baby in you, if Fraldarius hasn’t already found the guts to do that himself.”

Her face flares with heat at a sickening rush of humiliation at his string of insinuations, and she can’t help snapping, “If it wasn’t for this damn Silence spell, you’d need protection from _me_.”

“Sure,” Miklan agrees, and he picks at a grubby fingernail as if bored. “It’s funny how easy it is to incapacitate even the most powerful mages.” He turns his back, finished dealing with her, and starts barking orders to his thugs.

With sunset approaching, they light a fire and torches, making no secret of their position. The light reflects off the small lake she mentioned in the note, visible through the sort of short, white-barked trees that grow from the wet, boggy shoreline. The rising moon swims alongside the distorted, rippling reflection of torchlight, and the sight might be pretty if Annette wasn’t so miserable.

She spies more men than the ones that ambushed her in the rented room. The mage’s eyes flick to her every so often from his place near the campfire, and when he catches her gaze he touches her father’s necklace where it dangles from her neck. She thinks that, in a far-fetched reality where she can free herself, she’ll kill him first.

A couple bowmen lurk close to her, but they watch her less than they watch out for (she guesses) Felix. She’s been taken care of, Silenced and bound and with an arrow sticking out of her arm, so of course they won’t bother with her.

Annette wants to make them pay for underestimating her _again_ , if only she can think how.

The tree branches - bare or with yellowed leaves barely hanging - rustle in a breeze. She leans her head back, letting it soothe her warm flesh. Her arm aches worse than ever where the arrow protrudes, and dully she wonders if the wound’s already infected.

She thinks about the last time she escaped Miklan, with Felix, when they stole his wagon and raced away with it before the exhausted mule forced them to stop. She remembers tugging an arrow just like this one from Felix’s arm, remembers the pain flickering over his face as it bled and she hurriedly tried to staunch the bleeding, remembers how they could barely even walk away only for them to tumble down a hill for Rhys to find and heal them and—

A flicker of motion at the edge of the line of torches catches her attention. She stiffens, breath sticking in her lungs while she listens.

“How much longer till we give up on him?” one thug asks from around the campfire.

“Give it another hour,” Miklan says. “I doubt he’ll stay away, but he might be slowed down if he’s stupid enough to think he can sneak past us.”

“What if he brings help along?” another asks.

“He won’t,” Miklan assures them with the confidence of familiarity. “He’s too proud for that, and the local lord Acheron is next to useless without Count Gloucester breathing down his neck.”

“But if he does—”

“He knows to come alone,” Miklan cuts him off almost harshly. “If he doesn’t, his girl dies, simple as that.”

The thugs practically titter around the campfire, as if they’re chatting about the weather over tea rather than Annette’s life. She scowls and reaches for her magic again, but she can’t even begin to concentrate when she spots a silhouette skirting the shore of the lake. Her jaw drops as it draws closer and the figure resolves into…Felix.

Annette bites her lip to keep her automatic gasp inaudible before darting a glance towards the bowmen watching over her. One of them glances at her, his eyes narrowing, and she pointedly glares into his eyes to avoid him even looking in Felix’s direction.

Did she imagine his approach? She can’t have imagined it thanks to some…fierce and fearful hope?

Her heart races anew, but she tells the bowman, “You know, one of my best friends was an archer, so maybe—”

Something whistles through the air past her the instant before an arrow embeds itself in the bowman’s chest.

He falls with a strangled gasp, his partner turning towards him before shouting, “He’s shot! Someone attacked—” Another arrow cuts him off, a shaft fletched in gray feathers sticking out of his arm before he drops his own bow to clutch at it.

But the camp bursts into life, swordsmen and bowmen gathering weapons and on the lookout while Miklan himself retreats towards her, armor clanging on his way. She can’t help quailing away from him while her heart jumps into her throat, but his meaty hand grabs her ankle to drag her towards him.

Annette kicks out at him and wiggles out of his grasp, ignoring his curses. “Let me—” Her boot collides with his face with a crunch, and she sits up as he reels backwards, clutching at his nose.

Miklan glares at her from over his hands with enough fire she wonders if he’s trying to incinerate her on the spot; blood seeps between his fingers, but he reaches for the ax hanging from his belt.

And then amid the confusion of a camp under attack something clatters into the bottom of the wagon.

Annette’s dagger sits there, cleaned of any traces of blood. “Oh,” she says before jumping for it.

She dodges Miklan’s ax right as he swings it, hearing it whistle through the air past her ear and carve into the wagon bottom with a crunching of wood. She rolls around, fumbling blindly for the hilt of her dagger before her fingers bump it and close around.

She clumsily angles it up, trying to saw at her bindings. The blade bites into her own skin, and she hisses at the flash of pain and dampness of blood but ignores them, desperate to free herself while Miklan wrenches his ax from the wagon and raises it to strike again.

Sparks fly when it collides with steel, a familiar clang that makes Annette’s breath catch.

“Felix,” she whispers as she lifts her head.

His back greets her as he keeps Miklan at bay, and he doesn’t spare her so much as a glance and only snaps, “Hurry up!”

“To me!” Miklan orders his men at the same time. “He’s here!”

Annette doubts she’s ever been so happy to see anyone in her life, despite the circumstances. An absurd smile pulls at her lips as she wiggles the dagger around, the blade finally catching on the fibers of the rope binding her wrists.

The entire time Felix fights off Miklan, keeping him off her, distracting him with a flash of his blade and a flare of his Crest that makes Miklan stumble back.

“You get the hell away from her,” Felix growls, and Annette doesn’t think she’s ever heard him sound so…so _angry_.

But it won’t be man versus man for long, not with the other thugs approaching. A poorly aimed arrow thuds into the wagon bottom, and Felix dodges a blast of Fire from the mage. “Annette!” he shouts, but she’s already rolled aside, only feeling a wash of intense heat before it misses the wagon entirely.

“Love really does make you stupid,” Miklan spits as he swings his ax in a wide arc. “We could’ve taken you both alive, but now you’re better off dead!”

“How kind of you to spare us the long journey to Enbarr!” Felix retorts. He side-steps the blow, but that moves him around Miklan so that no one stands between him and Annette. But at last she cuts away at the ropes enough that they tear when she wrenches her wrists apart.

She gasps at the sudden pain in her shoulders but ignores it to stumble to her feet, standing on the damaged wagon bed, her hand dripping blood from where she cut herself. Miklan stares at her, eyes full of venom, but with her bloodied dagger in her hand and Felix here, Annette feels almost…powerful.

Her skin prickles under the heat of the malevolent gaze of the mage. His lip curls when she glares at him, and she raises her dagger and jumps off the wagon.

Her knees nearly buckle beneath her, but she recovers her balance and dodges past Miklan, made slow by his armor and his heavy ax, ignores Felix trying to call her back for her to stay close to him. She’ll listen once she’s at her own full strength and once she rids them both of the threat of magical attack.

The mage’s red Fire glyph lights the air between them as he flashes her a wicked smirk, but Annette dives right through it and plunges the knife into his chest.

He screams, his eyes full of terror. His warm blood soaks her hands and her sleeves, but she grits her teeth and raises the knife to strike again.

She needn’t have bothered. She knows he’s dead when magic floods her again, his Silence spell dying with him.

Magic fills her with a thrill, and she smiles as she blasts a swordsman backwards with the first Wind she summons. With ease she blows away any arrows fired at her and strides towards Felix.

His eyes find her, widening when they land, but he sets his jaw with the barest hint of a smirk and lashes out at Miklan more powerfully than before.

Annette swallows the bile rising in her throat; she’s so _tired_ of thugs and assassins threatening her, tired of risking capture and running for her life - and she refuses to let anyone take Felix from her, not before she’s ready (not that she ever will be).

Annette’s Crest fills her with a fresh surge of strength as she weaves another glyph and channels a violent Cutting Gale at a bowman stupid enough to think he can trifle with her. He falls fast, and only then she notices an arrow sticking out of his thigh.

Where _are_ those gray-fletched arrows coming from?

She immediately decides it doesn’t matter, not when they’re helping her and Felix and taking some of the thugs’ attention off them, and not when Miklan still unleashes a barrage of attacks against him.

Miklan snarls as he retaliates, swinging for Felix’s legs only for him to dance out of the path of his ax. “Why won’t you die like your brother?” he rages.

“I’m not my brother!” Felix snaps with a shout of frustration. The tip of his sword hooks into a gap in Miklan’s armor, and when he pulls back it comes away streaked with blood.

“No?” Miklan almost laughs, but it’s so angry it fills Annette with apprehension. “You’re just as willing to die for someone else!”

Felix strikes again, but this time Miklan’s ax connects with his blade with such force it’s torn from his hands. And unlike last time, he’s no longer carrying a spare.

He dives for it, but Miklan grabs him around the neck.

Annette’s blood rushes past her ears, drowning out the sound of her own furious shout, blotting out the pain throbbing dully in her arm. She begins summoning the most powerful spell at her disposal, never mind that casting it will leave her so drained of energy it’ll be hours before she’ll be able to accomplish anything like it. The glyph flickers to life agonizingly slowly, one matching igniting under her feet, but—

An arrow tears through Miklan’s throat, right over the gorget of his armor.

His eyes bulge with shock, a gurgle escaping his lips before blood trickles out at the corner of his mouth, but he drops Felix before he crumples to the ground himself.

Felix grabs his sword off the ground and points it at Miklan, his chest heaving with effort and bruised jaw almost shining in the torchlight, but by then his eyes only stare, glassy and empty of life.

Annette’s glyphs flicker out, but before she can let herself feel too much relief Felix shoves her away and says, “Run.”

“W-what?” she stutters. Her whole body is stiff with shock.

“We don’t know who shot them and if they’re friend or foe,” he says, “so run!”

“But what about—”

“I’m right behind you,” he insists. He cups the back of her head, pulling her close for a heartbeat, and when a shudder wracks her body she doesn’t even mind that he’s getting blood in her hair. “Now go.”

Annette, for once, obeys, fleeing along the lake’s shore, but her step doesn’t quicken until she hears his approach and knows he runs alongside her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unfortunately i got lazy this chapter and stole Annette's library song from her and Felix's A support rather than writing an OAC (Original Annette CompositionTM). don't hold it against me?


	12. we'll sleep in a bed tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last stop before the end now that the danger is passed.
> 
> (Naturally there is only one bed.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

They run until they can’t run any longer, until the lake darkens to a wide puddle of moonlit ink and they can no longer see the ground where they place their feet. But wary, Felix nudges an obviously exhausted Annette off the road and into the trees, where they can light a fire amid shelter and he can finally see to her arrow wound.

It’s an odd reversal of the first time they encountered Miklan. Now Annette’s the one with injuries and Felix, aside from a few bruises and scrapes and the ache in his muscles, is relatively unscathed.

He still feels the heaviness of failure, even after he pulls the arrow from Annette’s arm and finds it bleeding far less than he feared (to his great relief) and bandages it and the cut on her hand so tightly she complains.

Felix doesn’t understand how they survived that encounter with such…ease, not after Miklan snatched Annette right out from under him. While he loops a strip of linen around her warm hand and watches a few drops of blood turn it dark, he wonders if her damn fiance could’ve protected her any better, especially with other fighters at his disposal.

But that concern does him no good now that they’re safely - he hopes - inside their tent, with their emergency campfire dark and Annette’s wounds bandaged though the sight of them still makes his gut clench with fear, the mystery of the arrows that rained down on Miklan’s men bothers him.

Are they enemies of their enemies, or do they just seek the bounty on his head for themselves?

Or, perhaps, are they another assassin sent after Annette?

He can’t rest easy with this, not even with the knowledge that they’ll never again have to deal with Miklan.

He holds onto her tightly that night, hating how she trembles against him with something like residual fear no matter how he tries to soothe her. His own body won’t steady, and his heartbeat can’t seem to calm despite this last danger being past - _is_ it past? - and her grip on him just as powerful as his on her.

“I-I’m fine,” she reassures him more than once, though Felix doesn’t miss the tears streaking her face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”

“Don’t,” he cuts her off, more harshly than he means to. He shudders as he breathes, struggling to collect himself, hoping her scent might calm him, and when he runs his fingers through her hair he doesn’t know if he’s trying to comfort her or himself.

“You shouldn’t have—my note, I tried to tell you—”

Irritation flickers within him, but it’s not meant for her. He hugs her tighter and grits his teeth against the emotion swelling in his throat while her fingernails dig into his arms through his jacket.

It never occurred to Felix to abandon her, to cut his losses and find some other job, leave her to Miklan. Why would it?

He wonders if he would’ve had Miklan taken her hostage against him a mere fortnight ago, before he grew to care about her and her fate beyond just feeling sorry for a frightened young woman nearly slashed by an assassin in the stables and eager for the challenge of a new, swifter foe. A part of him doubts it, but the rest of him doesn’t want to think himself so callous and so cruel to just…ignore anyone in peril like that.

But for Annette he doesn’t have to wonder anymore.

He should be the one apologizing for failing to recognize the danger. He knew there was something amiss at that inn, something wrong…

Eventually Annette’s breathing evens out, but by morning, Felix barely slept. When he did it was fitful and full of nightmares he couldn’t wake from. He saw Miklan raising Annette by the throat rather than him, her face turning violet and blue as he squeezed the life out of her. He saw her feathered with arrows but, somehow, still smiling and singing, her hands stained with blood.

Her hands…

He poured water over her hands while she scrubbed them clean. Bile rose into his throat, and it tasted like failure.

Annette was alive and with him, but until she reached her destination she wouldn’t be _safe_.

As light begins to filter into the tent through the canvas, Felix lies on his back and listens to the sound of Annette breathing beside him. She fell asleep holding onto him, and if only for the relief of having her warm and close, he let her.

He reaches into his trouser pocket, and his fingers find the necklace he retrieved from the mage - the same necklace he once stole from her. They were too focused on fleeing and he was too worried about treating her wounds for him to return it to her last night, but now there’s little to stop him.

Annette stirs against Felix then, her breath hitching as she slips out of some dream and to the world they inhabit. A peculiar warmth floods him, at odds with the ache in his chest, and he resists the urge to tug her closer.

He wouldn’t mind forgetting the job and the end of the journey and just…lying like this with her.

Her eyes flicker open to find him…staring, at the long, fair eyelashes that frame her eyes, at the dusting of delicate freckles on the bridge of her nose, at the soft, slight curve to her cheeks, at—

“You’re staring,” she observes. She reaches up to prod at her nose. “Is there something on my face?”

Felix’s face warms to have been caught, and he tears his eyes away to lie on his back and stare up at the tent’s canvas ceiling. “Nothing that shouldn’t be there,” he tells her.

“That explains nothing,” Annette says. She sits up and rubs her eyes, yawning. “Did you even sleep, Felix?”

He shifts, uncomfortable, and rolls onto his side before sitting and grabbing his tote. “A few hours at least,” he lies and swallows a yawn of his own. “We should make it to an inn tonight; I’ll sleep better in a bed.”

“Well, if you’re sure…” She sounds skeptical, and from the corner of his eye she raises her hand before thinking better of touching him. “I guess we’re not likely to run into anymore trouble between here and…and there, anyway.”

He hopes not, but he can’t shake the hidden archer from his head.

After breaking camp, Felix convinces Annette to let him change the bandage on her arm. She endures his attention with minimal complaint - except to say he’s “fussing” over her for little more than a graze - and seems remarkably cheerful when they finally set out.

_“We’ll sleep in a bed tonight, and wake up at morning’s light! We’ll have a good scrub, and maybe some grub, but we’ll sleep in a bed tonight!”_

For all the unhappiness coiling in his chest, Felix can’t help smiling at her newest song. “Are you that eager to sleep in a bed?”

“Didn’t _you_ say you are too?” Annette retorts. She walks backwards in front of him - it does _not_ make him nervous that she’ll trip over something and hurt herself worse, oh no - and rolls her eyes. “I know you’re used to roughing it, Sir Sellsword, but we’ve been sleeping on the ground for more days than I can count on one hand, and my back _hurts_.”

His lips twitch at the resurgence of that nickname she gave him when she was cross with him more often than not. It feels like ages ago that a strange woman with fear in her eyes approached him demanding he escort her across Fodlan.

“I’m sure you’ll have a nice bed to sleep in when—” Felix nearly bites down on his tongue.

Annette, clever enough to predict what he nearly said, spins around to walk forwards again, but not before he sees her smile falter. “I suppose,” she concedes, “but Felix, I…let’s just not think about the—let’s make today a good day! We don’t have to worry about Miklan or that assassin again, so…we have reason to be happy!”

Felix steps a little faster, enough that he treks level with her and when she turns her head to appraise him with wide eyes he catches her bandaged hand and squeezes her fingers. “One more good day,” he promises her.

“As long as you don’t get yourself kicked out of an inn again,” Annette mumbles, and Felix pretends he didn’t hear her.

They reach town early in the afternoon but decide it’s worth stopping for the day. They resupply with more than enough essentials to take them to Gloucester Estate and wander the town. It’s lively and crowded despite the bite of winter in the air, and it seems they arrived on a market day so busy and bustling it belies the town’s small size.

Annette buys an apple off a whistling farmer, smiling as she bites into it. “Fresh fruit,” she mumbles, heedless to a drop of the apple’s juice sliding down her chin.

Felix stifles a bizarre urge to swipe his sleeve over her chin, but even when he settles with pointing it out to her, a livid blush colors her face as she wipes it away.

Despite the last day’s turmoil, the market’s liveliness… _infects_ Annette, perhaps after so long traveling mostly only with each other for company. She bounces from stall to stall, eager to chat with farmers and craftsmen alike rapidly enough he has to jog to keep her in his sight, and when Felix catches her staring longingly at a small peach pie he slides the baker a coin for it.

Her eyes practically glitter when he offers it to her, and she startles him with a hug so powerful and sudden the pie nearly tumbles from his hands and the ground nearly eats it instead.

(His face heats so much it must match hers in redness after she pulls away.)

It’s only when they reach the center square, where the crowd is at its thickest, that Felix learns they’ve stumbled across a harvest festival. Children play games, throwing balls back and forth or lashing out at each other with toy swords while adults yell at them for getting underfoot, a man juggles flaming torches, a woman shoots arrows through apples tossed into the air by a giggling child…

Annette watches it all, her eyes wide as if she’s never seen anything like it, and Felix, his skin prickling with discomfort at being caught in the midst of so many bodies and noise, watches her.

Music drifts from one corner of the square. Annette grabs his wrist and tugs him towards it, where they find a pair of bards with one strumming a lute and the other pounding an Almyran drum. The tune niggles at some memory of Felix’s, one he thought forgotten or buried from a time when his worst concern was winning just one duel against his brother, and it resurfaces as the bard with his lute starts to sing in a smooth, melodious voice:

_“I met a lady fair today with flowers in her hair.  
In Garland Moon her love did weave a crown of thorns for her.  
But the longer she danced with me the flowers they did bloom.”_

A few couples dance nearby, laughing and smiling, from one elderly pair of farmers to a man who balances a little girl (likely his daughter) on his feet.

“I know this song,” he says without thinking. It’s jaunty in parts and lively enough for a festival atmosphere, but Felix always thought there a dissonance between the cheerful tune and the somber lyrics. “I haven’t heard it since…since before my brother died.”

“Oh.” Annette frowns, her gaze downcast. “We can go then, if you—”

“No, it’s fine,” he tells her, and it _is_. For once the usual ache in his chest isn’t too much to bear, especially not with Annette warm and alive at his side.

“Then…” Annette steps back from him with an almost teasing glint in her eyes before lifting the hem of her dress and curtsying. “May I have this dance?”

Felix covers his face lest a sudden rush of embarrassment threaten to overwhelm him. “Really,” he mumbles under his breath.

“Come on, Felix,” Annette insists. She straightens and offers him a hand, a hopeful smile stretching across her face. “I know we’ve been through…so much lately, so let’s just unwind a little?”

Unwind? He wants to scoff at the notion - he doesn’t have time or opportunity to relax in his line of work, and although Miklan and Metodey are both dead and behind them, he can’t bring himself to forget the danger, much less how he almost lost _her_ so easily - but Annette stares at him so earnestly, so hopefully, so eagerly.

Felix can’t refuse her.

“Shouldn’t I have been the one asking you for a dance?” he wonders instead, but he takes her hand and steps towards her.

“Maybe,” Annette says, “but it’s not like we’re at a ball or something.” She drags him a little closer to rest her other hand on his arm.

Felix surprises himself when he remembers the scripted motions of a ballroom dance, especially since he hated rehearsing it so much as a child when he’d rather be practicing a different sort of dance on the training grounds, but his hand finds its place on Annette’s slim waist.

Except a noble dance doesn’t quite match the rhythm of this ballad, and when Annette nearly trips over his feet he spins her away from him and says, “Let’s try it a different way.”

A few more false starts later, they’re both breathless and Annette’s laughter tickles his ear. She leans into him, her hand in his and his arm around her waist, and Felix isn’t really sure that what they’re doing - this swaying, this half-embrace - now counts as dancing.

The bard repeats the ballad from the beginning, the tune a little slower this time, and he finds himself whispering the words.

Annette turns her head at that moment, her eyes wide and lips parted with surprise, but he can’t bring himself to look at her with his face so warm. She trembles in his arms then, and when he finally glances at her, her own gaze won’t meet his.

Something tugs at his chest, the now-familiar ache returning in full-force. “What—what’s wrong?” he asks her, though he thinks he knows the answer.

“N-nothing,” Annette says. “You just surprised me by singing when, well, I’m usually the one singing around you!” She laughs, but Felix suspects the brightness in her eyes as something other than mirth.

“Your lyrics are better,” he tells her, one part because he’s desperate to cheer her up, to see her smile and for that light to reach her eyes, but the other because he…actually believes it.

Her songs enchant and captivate him and his thoughts, though not nearly as absolutely as the woman who sings them.

Annette smiles, but there’s still something a little tremulous in it. “You don’t have to lie just to cheer me up.”

“I’m not lying,” Felix insists. He rolls his eyes, because the frustration stoking inside him is easier to dwell on than the pain, and explains, “I’d forgotten this song that the bard is singing, but I’ll never forget any of yours.”

Annette buries her face against his chest, right over his pounding heart. “Don’t,” she mutters, her voice muffled in his shirt, “please don’t, Felix.”

Felix doesn’t ask her what she means, because he knows it’s already too late.

* * *

“You’re in luck, handsome,” the innkeeper says as soon as they approach her perch at the counter. “I have only one room left.”

“We’ll take it,” Felix says. He digs through his tote in search of the amount the innkeeper gives them.

Irritation Annette has no right to flickers in her chest when the pretty innkeeper smiles at an unsmiling Felix - handsome? Does she not see the ugly, gut-churning bruise on his jaw? - so rather than dwell on that she glances around with a sort of detachment. The inn’s decor is nice, she thinks, with warm oranges and browns indicative of autumn. Noise trails out from the common room along with uproarious laughter. One patron accuses another of cheating at cards, and maybe if not for the awful sense of dread in her stomach she might nudge Felix and laugh about it.

As it is, all Annette wants right now is to have a good bath, a good sleep, and maybe a good cry, not necessarily in that order.

It would be easy to pile all the blame for the turn in her mood at Felix’s feet. He accepted her invitation to dance with her, and while in his arms an almost alien contentment washed over her and she could forget Miklan and his thugs and the blood staining her sleeves and the bandages around her arm and hand. And then he leaned in close and whispered the lyrics from the bard’s ballad.

His voice was a little raspy and not nearly as smooth as the bard’s, but it still sent a shiver down her spine along with the bitter reminder that before she knows it she’ll be wearing a wedding gown and he’ll be gone, off and away on some new job with an employer that can actually pay him and who won’t be a liability.

Felix doesn’t even glance at her while they sit in a quiet corner of the common room for dinner. A maid sets a bowl of a hearty venison stew that’s supposedly a Gloucester territory specialty - what a perfect welcome for the bride of the next Count Gloucester! Annette can’t help the sardonic thought - but with her stomach coiling with nerves the rich scent only makes Annette nauseous.

Even Felix barely picks at his portion, despite its meatiness. Instead he tears a roll to shreds before offering them to a cat that wends itself around his leg.

“Cats eat meat, not bread,” Annette reminds him mildly, though the sight of Felix trying - and failing - to feed a bold, friendly cat brings a fleeting smile to her lips.

He scoops a chunk of venison onto his spoon and leans over to tempt the cat. It laps at the sauce staining it and allows Felix to stroke its back.

“I didn’t know you like cats,” she observes.

He shrugs and straightens after the cat takes the meat. “So what if I do?” he says, his tone defensive.

She sighs, irritation and no small sting of rejection in her chest. “Nothing, just…you’re still full of surprises,” Annette says, “that’s all.”

Felix turns to her then, a frown on his lips and his fingers drumming against the table. “I’m…sorry,” he says, to her surprise. “I…I mean, you…” His eyes pinch shut, as if shaping words physically pains him. “Yes, I like cats.”

Annette giggles, and she feels a little lighter for it.

They climb the stairs up to their room on the second landing before long, the common room too loud and too noisy even for Annette to handle for longer than it takes to force down a few spoonfuls of stew. Her heartbeat throbs in her head where some pressure builds up, and her flesh is sore under the bandage wrapped around her arm.

She looks forward to burying her face in a pillow - an actual pillow! - and sleeping, but…every time she glances sideways at Felix she remembers that sleep will only hasten their parting.

He unlocks the door and nudges it open. A sigh escapes him even before she steps in after him to find a simply furnished room with a single double bed in the center and a chest of drawers with a small mirror hanging on the wall over it.

And no one lurking, lying in wait to ambush them.

Felix crosses his arms. “Only one bed.” He rubs the back of his neck, and Annette remembers he barely slept the night before. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Why?” she wonders, gesturing towards the bed. Distantly she’s aware that it wasn’t so long ago when she blushed at just the thought of sharing a _room_ with him, but now, after so many nights spent in a tent alone with him, it doesn’t even occur to her to feel embarrassed or worried that someone will…know. “It’s big enough to share,” she notes.

“Maybe for two of you,” Felix grumbles under his breath.

Annette raises an eyebrow at him, and she drops her bag to rest her hands on her hips. “Were you expecting a bed big enough for someone of your social standing?” she demands.

He scrubs a hand down his face with a grimace. “That is not what I meant,” he says.

“Then what did you mean?” she wonders. “We’ve been sharing a tent for a while.” A little thrill fills her, remembering the times he held her while she slept…but it fades quickly, as all things must, replaced with a tightening in her chest.

Felix grits his teeth but still won’t look at her. “It’s not…exactly…the same,” he says.

His sudden reticence makes her own face flush, and she clears her throat as she bends down to dig through her bag. “Well, even if it’s not, it’s the first bed we’ve seen in days.” She collects her spare dress - she’ll wear it while the one she’s wearing now dries and then wash the spare too - and straightens. “I still refuse to share a bed with someone who hasn’t bathed in a week though.”

Felix’s jaw twitches, but he nods. “You’re…going alone?” he asks her, his eyebrow furrowed.

“You can’t bathe in the women’s bathhouse, Felix,” she tells him. She coughs, suddenly very, very warm without entering a bath, but reassures him, “I’ll be fine, all right? Miklan’s stupid mage is dead, so anyone else who sneaks up on me will have to suffer my magic.”

She doesn’t wait for him to protest or agree - she doesn’t need his permission, she tells herself - before she darts into the hall and closes the door behind her.

When Annette enters the inn’s small women’s bath, a sense of deja vu creeps over her. She tries to let the steam and hot water ease some of the tension in her muscles as she scrubs blood, dirt, and sweat off her skin and from her clothes. She dumps a bucket of warm water over her head, coughing out what she snorts by accident, and sighs as she sinks into the tub.

How long has it been since she left home? She can’t remember anymore. Her life took so many bizarre turns since then that she can’t wrap her mind around all of them:

First the Empire wanted - still wants, probably - her dead and slaughtered her whole escort to do it. If not for that, then they’d still be with her, she and Ashe would’ve spent the entire journey laughing and swapping tales and wondering if her groom was as fine as any knight from the stories, and—

She never would’ve met frustrating, infuriating, fascinating…Felix.

Maybe that would’ve been better for her, and for him, Annette thinks, to spare herself the heartache when she finally arrives at Gloucester’s Estate and finds the count’s son lacking, but right now she’s grateful she knows him instead.

Annette leaves the bathhouse a little drowsy and more contented than she would’ve thought. Her newly washed dress and underclothes are a damp bundle in her arms she hangs from a rod in their room.

It’s empty when she returns to it, and she holds magic within her, wary of what happened last time she entered a vacant inn room. But after shutting the door and locking it - Felix would’ve taken the other key with him - she deems it empty enough she chances tugging her song journal from her bag to flip through the pages, struck by a sudden inspiration only to remember she doesn’t carry quill or ink. After a quick trip downstairs to beg the supplies from the innkeeper, she settles on the room’s sole chair before the chest of drawers with her journal open to the first blank page.

Only for her inspiration to prove fleeting. Ink drips uselessly onto the page, all words gone. A part of her wants to document her journey somehow, but now, with a pang in her chest, she finds herself at a loss.

Annette gives up in favor of brushing the tangles from her damp hair. She hums the ballad from the festival until her thoughts take a darker turn.

Idly she wonders if their looming parting weighs as heavily on Felix as it does on her. Does he wish they could push back the days? Does he have the same unending ache in his chest when he looks at her?

Does it even matter when another man awaits her?

She doesn’t hear the door opening and closing. She focuses on brushing her hair, growling when the bristles snag on a particularly stubborn tangle, but jumps when a hand falls onto her shoulder.

Annette calls her magic, a glyph flashing to life before her until she looks up and finds Felix’s reflection staring at her from the mirror. The glyph flickers out, leaving them in the dimness of candlelight, and she smiles sheepishly at his reflection.

“You startled me,” she says by way of explanation.

“What if I’d been an intruder?” he demands. “What if that archer that skewered Miklan isn’t as benign as they seemed?”

She waves her brush at him and says, “If you had been, and they weren’t, I would’ve blasted you or them halfway across the room.”

Felix rolls his eyes as he turns away from her to putter about the room. “I am very grateful we’re not enemies.”

“As you should be!” Annette exclaims. “Though you’re still a villain; I almost think you go out of your way to sneak up on me.”

Felix doesn’t bother countering her accusation, so she busies herself watching him instead. His hair, still damp from his own bath, hangs loose to his shoulders, and he unbuckles his belt to lean his sword against the wall within easy reach of the chair.

“Do you always sleep where you can reach your sword,” Annette wonders, “or is it just when I’m with you?”

“Usually,” Felix says, “but especially with you, especially…especially.”

She grips her hairbrush tighter and wonders why in the name of the Four Saints _that_ assertion makes her heart race. She presses her lips together to keep from grinning like a fool but says, “Then shouldn’t it be next to the bed?”

“No.”

Annette drops her forehead against the chest of drawers. “Felix,” she groans, “you won’t rest well sleeping in a chair.”

“I’ve slept in worse,” he claims, though she knows it to be true after so many nights spent sleeping on the ground with him. She hears him shuffle around some, and when she raises her head he sits at the end of the bed tugging off his boots.

“Well, I’m sleeping in a bed for once!” Annette declares. She stands and starts unlacing her dress, eager to _not_ sleep in her clothes and just in her undershirt and a slip for once…only for her ears to burn. “Can you, um, can you turn around?” she asks Felix.

He stares at her for a heartbeat, looking like he wants to retort something foolish, but, to her relief, he turns his back to her.

Not without crossing his arms and sighing like it’s the greatest chore in the world.

She doesn’t tell him he can face her again till she slips under the covers.

It shouldn’t surprise Annette when the only “undressing” Felix does is shrug out of his coat and hang it from the back of the chair, anymore that anything either of them has done ought to be strange or unusual. But for some reason the air in the room feels…different, like the static in the air in the heartbeat before a Thunder spell strikes the ground.

For the moment Annette gives up on Felix, who seems intent on cleaning his sword though it already shines brighter than the mirror hanging on the wall. She lies on her side facing him, watching the candlelight play across his features and wishing she could ask him to hold her until she falls asleep again.

Maybe that would be a little selfish of her…but with her heart heavy with others’ expectations, Annette wants to be selfish, at least while she still can.

“Are you even going to sleep?” she wonders.

“Yes,” Felix says, though from the curtness of his response - more than usual, anyway - she assumes he’s lying.

“You’re…not still thinking about that archer, are you?”

When he says nothing, Annette sits up and faces him. He stares past her towards the door, and…

“Whoever they are,” she says, “they saved us, Felix.”

“I know.” His eyes drift down, and he sighs through his nose. “Miklan took you right from under me, and I couldn’t even kill the bastard myself, yet—”

“Oh, shut up,” Annette cuts him off. Irritation flickers through her, but when Felix’s eyes, wide with shock, flit to her face, she winces at her own curtness. “Why does it even matter who killed him? We both escaped alive—”

“But not unharmed,” he argues through gritted teeth.

Her fingers close around her own arm, right under the bandage he wrapped around it. “I’m fine,” she insists, not for the first time, “and I will be fine. I just…” Her eyes slip shut, and she takes a deep breath and flips the blankets aside before patting the cold, empty space beside her. “If you’re not going to sleep in the bed with me, would you at least sit next to me?” Where she can reach him, she doesn’t say, where she can remind herself that he’s as alive and intact as she is and she hadn’t led him into his doom.

To her surprise, he relents almost immediately. He stands from the chair and rounds the bed - propping his sword up against the wall _there_ , of course - before perching on the edge. Then, slowly, as if he considers each action before he does it, he sits back, leaning against the headboard.

Annette offers him a smile, her triumph making her a little giddy. She actually convinced him of _something_ , even if it had to be a compromise, and that to her is worth something.

Although…

Her smile grows wider. Annette throws the blankets over him, latches onto Felix’s arm, and tugs him down to lie next to her.

“A-Annette!” he exclaims.

“Th-that’s what you get for startling me earlier!” she retorts. “And for refusing to _sleep_ , you—you scoundrel!”

Annette drags Felix down, but he resists her efforts. She grabs onto his shoulders, at least trying to get him to _lie flat_ , and hooks her leg around his waist.

For a beat she has the upper hand, the element of surprise on her side as she tries to use her weight against him, but then his superior strength wins out.

Felix’s strong hands catch her wrists, and suddenly rather than looking down at him her head spins. And when her vision steadies she looks…up.

Annette’s heart races, but she can’t begin to puzzle out if it’s due to their scuffle or to the position. Felix hovers over her, his hands pinning her wrists over her head, his knees bracketing her in, and his chest tantalizingly close to hers. And his face—

She tries not to meet his gaze, not sure what she’ll find there, but then her eyes fall to his lips and that’s not much better.

She’s lightheaded again, and warmer than she ought to be, and Felix breathes harshly, and deeply, and doesn’t move.

When his breath blooms against her forehead, she finally dares to catch his eye. Dark and startlingly intense amid the shadows playing about his face, and they remind her of…

Annette forgot what almost happened before the last time the assassin attacked them, the incident lost in the frenzy of the fight and the fear of watching Felix bleed out in her arms. But no one’s here to interrupt them now, and she finds herself raising her head, tugged up towards him by an invisible thread that connects them.

Felix meets her halfway.

It’s almost hesitant at first, the way he kisses Annette, like he isn’t sure what to do, but then when she pushes her lips against his he follows her lead. He presses in closer, a little more forcefully, more sure of himself, more sure of her. Heat floods her as she drinks him in, eager to take whatever he’ll give, desperate to give him something in return.

He lets go of one of her wrists to cup the back of her head and drag her up, drag her closer. She buries her freed hand in his hair, enjoying the feeling of it, still a little damp, slipping through her fingers.

Her heart pounds inside her ribcage, louder even than their harsh breathing, and she wonders if it beats in time with his or if that’s just a romantic cliche. She’s ever-conscious of how little she wears but how much she wants to hold Felix closer, _get_ closer, and kiss him until they’re both dizzy.

Annette sighs, but then he pulls away before she wants him to, his breathing ragged as if from battle. Though she also gasps for breath she can’t help giving chase.

But he lets her go and rolls away from her grasp, and before Annette can protest he shoves the blankets away and swings his legs off the bed. “I-I’m sorry,” he tells her as he stumbles to his feet, almost tripping over the bed covers in his haste. “I’ll be—good night.”

Felix leaves through the door, leaves _her_ to curl up under the covers clutching a pillow to her rather than him. Her chest aches where only a heartbeat ago she could’ve exulted, his rejection, however reasonable she _knows_ it to be, plunging a dagger through her heart.

The only reason Annette knows he’ll come back is because he doesn’t take his sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dunno if Felix has any kind of singing voice but oh well! ALSO at risk of forgetting i gotta thank Rose (aka RoseIsARoseIsARose) for beta reading almost every chapter and making sure they’re fit for human consumption. without her this fic may not have existed or been completed <3
> 
> and...at last we reach the scene in the mini bang art, which you can suitably view to ooh and ahh to praise Shen [here on Twitter](https://twitter.com/animeshen/status/1300529909979181056?s=20)! hope you enjoyed the context! ~~i know i enjoyed writing it aha~~


	13. i can't say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They reach their destination, but is it the end of their journey?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the screams last chapter! <3  
> this chapter also brought to you by Drama and Pining. find it in a story near you!
> 
> (enjoy)

In an ideal Fodlan, Felix would make a quick circuit of the inn’s perimeter ostensibly to check for possible threats before returning to the room to find Annette sound asleep and his own heartbeat steadier than it was when he left.

Well, no, in an ideal Fodlan, his brother would still be alive and maybe even Felix would be content as the next Duke Fraldarius, or he could’ve parted from his father and friends amicably rather than running off without leaving so much as a note, or he could’ve met Annette before her uncle arranged for her to marry some Alliance noble not good enough for her and he could’ve courted her like they were a normal couple, with normal aspirations, in a perfectly normal world, and where Felix, with his house’s power and prestige behind him, would be enough to secure her family’s territory from the Empire.

But there’s no ideal Fodlan and he can’t undo any of his past choices, so Felix wanders the grounds barefoot and without his coat because he forgot it and his boots in his rush to just. Get. _Out._

Still, Annette’s presence tries to draw him back, not least because some part of him can’t shake the sense that they missed something, that someone will still try to hurt her, that maybe he won’t be there to stop it.

The other part of him just wants to hold her and kiss her senseless again and again, and now that he’s gotten a taste of her he doesn’t know how to think of anything or anyone else. When he pulled away, he was little better than a drowning man desperate for air, but he found no relief in it.

So he ran away, like he always does, and though he intends to return and fulfill his side of their deal, he still feels like a coward. Felix will see her safely delivered to her _groom_ , and then he’ll leave her for good with no intention of seeing her again.

And then…will he ever forget her? Will she become another memory he buries deep inside him only to reawaken at the worst possible time?

Will she forget…Felix?

She should, he _knows_ she should even just to spare herself if she feels half the pain he does, especially after he fled her embrace, but that awful, burning, selfish part of him wants - _hopes_ \- she’ll think of Felix when she so much as looks at _him_.

(Yet to what end? He’s just a sellsword, with nothing but that sword to give.)

When he finally finds the wherewithal to return to the room, the candle’s snuffed out and it’s dark. Shadows outline the shape of Annette’s silhouette under the covers, and for a heartbeat Felix entertains the notion of crawling under with her, like it’s another night in their tent and they can share their warmth and wake up in the morning with their limbs tangled and pretend like nothing more than companionship burns between them.

But he doesn’t. He sits in the chair with his arms crossed and shoulders hunched and tries to succumb to the heaviness of his eyelids.

He wakes from whatever feeble sleep he managed before Annette, an ache in his neck and in his chest, and with dread hanging heavily in his stomach. The faint light of sunrise streams in through the window and shines on her, and it ignites her hair in flame.

He ties up his hair - pushing the memory of her fingers running through it from his mind - and dons his boots and belt before Annette stirs. By the time he shoves any loose belongings into his tote, she sits up in bed with her arms extended over her head.

Felix averts his eyes; he can avoid this longing that stirs in him, shove it away like he should’ve all along.

Annette blinks blearily at him and rubs her eyes. His heart seizes painfully, and he can’t begin to guess if she’ll say anything about last night.

He never can predict her even in the best of circumstances.

“You didn’t sleep,” she accuses him.

“I might’ve dozed off for a few hours,” he tells her.

“Felix…” Her sigh hurts worse than his name from her lips.

He refuses to look at her, almost afraid of what he might find in her expression. “Just get dressed,” he says. “We’ll leave when you’re ready.”

“I’ll never be ready,” Annette mumbles, and Felix wishes he hadn’t heard her.

It’s less than two days of walking from this town to Gloucester Estate, but to him they feel like much longer yet not nearly long enough. They can’t speak like they used to, and he never even hears Annette sing, but that same selfish part of him wishes she would so he’d have one more song to remember.

Felix finds her necklace where he tucked it into his trouser pocket. He looks at Annette, walking just a little ahead of him and going out of her way to tread on the crunching brown leaves that litter their path, and lets it go.

“I still owe you something,” Annette breaks their steady silence that evening while they camp out in the trees. “We had our deal, didn’t we?”

“We haven’t made it yet,” Felix says. He focuses on his task - polishing his sword to a shine though it doesn’t need it - and adds, “I’ll collect tomorrow.”

“Can you at least tell me what you want?” she wonders. “I’d like to know, so I’ll at least be…prepared.”

His heart thumps painfully, awfully in his chest, as it has been all day, because he knows what he wants, just like he knows he can’t ask it.

 _I want you,_ he could say, but he bites his tongue, because Annette will never oblige him. _I want to kiss you again,_ is another possibility, but if she agrees and he does he’s afraid he’ll never want to stop.

His stomach flips, but he finally tugs out the necklace. Annette’s breath catches when she lays eyes on it, and he says, “This, or a song.”

Distantly he recalls her refusing to give him the necklace when he first noticed it and pointed out he could’ve simply sold it for a proper payment, so he doubts she’ll agree to it, but then—

“All right,” Annette says, a ghost of a smile playing around her lips. “You can have it. I guess I got used to not having it myself, so…um, it’s a deal!”

“Are you…sure?” he wonders. “Didn’t you say it belonged to your father?”

“Then why are you asking for it?” she retorts with some of her usual wit. She crosses her arms and rests them on her knees. “It’s really just a necklace, in the end. It won’t bring him back.”

Felix’s grip on the necklace tightens, and he stares at the silver Crest of Seiros pendant. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“For what?” She tilts her head, eyebrow raised and lips turned into a confused pout.

For escaping her arms the night before? For allowing her to suffer at Miklan’s hands?

For having nothing he can give her to sway her from a marriage she doesn’t seem to want anymore? (Or is that just the worst kind of wishful thinking on his part?)

“You’re…unhappy,” he notes.

Annette’s eyes widen before she shrugs. “It’s near the end, isn’t it?” she reminds him, twisting the knife in his chest. “We…I’ll miss you, Felix. If you’ll m—you _can_ keep the necklace. Sell it if you want, though probably not anywhere in the Empire to be safe.”

“Doubt I’ll be crossing Empire borders again anytime soon,” Felix says with a snort. He finally tucks the necklace back into his pocket - though there’s no satisfaction or relief from her concession - as yet another keepsake like his brother’s black iron spur, another meaningless, sentimental object by which to remember someone when it would be less painful to simply forget.

“And you…want a song too?” she says, haltingly and hesitating.

He nods and dares to inch a little closer to her. “You know I like your songs,” he says. “Sing for me? Please…Annette.”

One more time, he tells himself.

Her eyes flicker shut, her shoulders heaving as if she takes a breath. When she opens her eyes she avoids looking at him and says, “I don’t know if I can, Felix. I just don’t have it in me right now.”

His heart drops with disappointment, but it breaks to hear her so morose. “Th-that’s fine,” he says. “I envy your—I envy him.”

Annette doesn’t ask who; she knows. “Why would you? Is it really just my songs?”

 _No,_ he thinks. It’s everything, from her humor and her _brightness_ that so contrast with his gloom, to her passion and dedication, but still he must hold his tongue. He scrubs a hand over his face, his eyes pinched shut, and grits out, “You…know.”

They lapse into silence, this one far longer, far more uncomfortable, than any that came before it in all their long journey. But by the time Felix accepts that they’ll endure a silent night, she breaks hers to offer, “You can read my song journal in the morning instead, as long as you promise not to poke fun at any of the lyrics.”

Felix huffs, and it could be mistaken for a laugh. “I won’t,” he promises.

And he doesn’t; he doesn’t have it in him to tease Annette anymore, not even after a restless night sharing a tent filled with the sound of her steady breathing louder than any orchestra behind him, not with her feeling more distant from him than on the day they met and she threw a drink at him. He doesn’t know how to make her smile one last time before they part, not like she did when they danced at the festival, nor like she did all the times before that and he fell deeper in love with her each time.

It’s almost a relief when they crest a hill that looks out over Gloucester Estate. Wrought iron gates cut across the path, a flag bearing the Crest of Gloucester flying in the wind from an adjacent guard tower.

Annette stops walking at the same time he does, and together they look down at the end. She’ll be safe so long as she makes it behind the gates, he tries to convince himself, safe and…married to another man.

But will she be happy after all?

She turns to him then, a hesitant smile that doesn’t light up her eyes prodding at her lips. “I, um…Felix…”

“Your groom awaits,” he says, well-aware he sounds…sarcastic and unkind. It’s easier this way, it’s easier to be irritated and angry than…than _this_.

Annette flinches, and shame grips him instantly. “I-I guess so,” she concedes, but she still doesn’t move.

Does she want him to walk her to the gates and hand her off to the guard? Does she want him to be there when she meets her fiance and he holds her hand and kisses her knuckles while Felix imagines seizing him by his undoubtedly prim and proper collar and throwing him out of a window?

For a moment he entertains a fancy of challenging this Gloucester heir to a duel, only to dismiss it as foolish.

Annette would never forgive him for such selfishness, but—

On some impulse, on some weakness, Felix grabs her hand. When her eyes flick up to his, full of shock, he demands, “What if you are selfish, just this once?”

“I-I—what?”

“Be selfish, Annette,” he all but begs. “I—please, be selfish; don’t marry him.” _Stay with me instead._

“I can’t,” she says, shaking her head. “I have to—to marry him for my family’s and territory’s sake, Felix. I can’t let them down, my uncle and my mother are counting on me.”

“Do you really want this?” he wonders. “Tell me marrying him will make you happy, and I’ll—I’ll let it go.” His heart races, full of expectation, as fragile and soft as it was when he was a child and he’d burst into tears at the slightest offense.

“I-I want to protect my family from the Empire,” Annette insists. “Our territory’s on the border, its people will be the first victims when they invade!”

“Then—then I’ll protect them,” Felix pronounces.

“W— _how_?” Her jaw drops with shock, almost _awe_ , before she stutters, “I-I’m one person, how do you elect to protect a whole territory by yourself?”

“I’ll return home,” he says, almost desperately. Damn him, the solution should’ve been obvious all along! One more choice - he can undo one mistake, swallow his pride and reconcile with his father for Annette.

He squeezes her fingers, and when she doesn’t pull away he cups her face with his other hand and leans towards her. “I’ll go home, I-I’ll rejoin my house, I can protect you and your family better as a duke’s heir than as a sellsword anyway.”

Annette freezes, every muscle in her face slackening. Her nose is red and her eyes swim with unshed tears, and he wonders if she too feels the same crushing weight on her chest.

Hope swoops wildly in his chest at her hesitation - hope, so rare to him he almost doesn’t recognize it.

But then she pulls away from him, her hand escaping his grip as she takes a step back, shaking her head and again avoiding his gaze.

Does it hurt her this much whenever he avoids hers?

“I—” Annette cuts herself off with a sigh before continuing in a tremulous voice, “I can’t believe that’s something you’d want, and I can’t break an agreement my uncle made, no matter how much I want—I can’t.”

An undercurrent of anger grips Felix then, and he snaps, “Have you ever even made a decision for your own sake?”

Annette recoils as if he slapped her, and that’s when he notices the tear tracks staining her cheeks. Guilt bites him, sharper and more intense than his anger and frustration, and he reaches for her again. “Annette—”

“Annette!”

Felix’s hand flies to the hilt of his sword at the unfamiliar voice. On instinct he slides between her and the figure that jogs up the hill towards them.

But she steps around him before he can grab her and gasps, “Oh— _Ashe_? Ashe!”

The man approaching them waves his arms frantically over his head, and it’s enough to reassure Felix he’s unarmed. But then he launches himself up the hill, and Annette runs forward to meet him in a hug.

They laugh as he spins her around before setting her down again, her hands on his shoulders and his on her waist. Felix feels like an intruder watching it, but it doesn’t stop his blood from rushing hotter or a scowl from twisting his lips.

Except he has no right to any jealousy.

Except, didn’t Felix see this man mere moments before Miklan snatched Annette? He rammed into him while in the throes of distraction and worry…

“You’re alive!” she exclaims to the young man. “How are you alive?”

“Well, my wounds weren’t so bad that they killed me.” He rubs the back of his neck and offers up a sheepish smile. “I managed to crawl away from the ambush, and a couple of farmers found me and…helped me. Once I was well enough to travel, I knew I had to make it to Gloucester even if I couldn’t catch up to you.” He smiled a little wider, his hand resting on Annette’s shoulder before his gaze slips past her to Felix. “I guess Baron Dominic has you to thank for keeping her safe, right?”

Felix’s skin prickles with discomfort as he crosses his arms and shrugs. “Safe…” he mumbles, his eyes trailing to the bandage on Annette’s arm.

The man just grins. “But, well, I’m alive! And I’m here right in time to see you get married soon, Annette!”

Annette visibly flinches, and Felix can’t miss the way she glances over her shoulder towards…him. “Y-yes,” she agrees with him, her voice full of false cheer, “you can! Of course you can, Ashe!”

While they chatter excitedly, Felix looks the stranger - Ashe - over. He carries a longbow slung over his back, and a quiver of gray-fletched arrows hangs from his hip.

Wait—

“It was you,” Felix realizes, cutting into their conversation. He steps towards them, pointing at Ashe, who stares at him with wide, curious eyes. “You shot that bastard.”

“What?” Annette turns to him, then her eyes flick to Ashe and recognition crosses her face too. “You killed Miklan?”

“Oh, is that what his name was?” Ashe laughs, suddenly sounding a little nervous. “I, um…yes, I suppose I did. You looked like you were in trouble when I came across you so I hid in the trees.” He casts his eyes down, nudging at the ground with his toes like an abashed child, and adds, “I’m sorry I couldn’t hit anyone sooner, it was dumb luck our paths crossed there.”

“Why didn’t you reveal yourself sooner?” Felix demands. “I saw you in town!” He’s not even sure why he bothers asking, because what if Ashe _did_ reveal himself sooner? Would Annette have abandoned him earlier and continued to Gloucester with just Ashe for company?

Would that have been better to get their goodbyes over and done with a day or two earlier, before he learned the feeling of her lips molded against his?

“You ran away,” Ashe reminds him, but his tone holds no resentment or irritation in his tone. “After that, and after I saw you fighting together, I figured Annette was in good hands and I could just find her again here.”

Felix doesn’t bother pointing out that two protectors are better than one.

“But anyway…we’re here,” Ashe says. He offers his arm out to Annette. “Are you ready? I know you were already pretty nervous when we left Dominic.”

She looks at his arm before her eyes drift back to Felix. He can’t read her expression, how it suddenly falters from the smile she wore for Ashe to something a little tighter and more closed off for him.

He never knew how expressive Annette could be - how even someone as daft as him could read her face - until she shut it tight.

Annette takes Ashe’s arm and sighs. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she says. “I, um…” She half-turns towards Felix again but doesn’t meet his eyes when she mumbles, “Goodbye, Felix. Thank you for…everything.” A flicker of a smile crosses her face, the last one she’ll ever give him. “I hope you…I—”

“I know,” he tells her, because when it matters most, he doesn’t know what to say anymore either, much less how to say it.

His chest constricts as he watches them head down the path together, Annette half-leaning against Ashe. He watches her walk away from him, because he couldn’t offer her what she needs or wants, because maybe, in the end, the hilt of a sword still fits better in his hand than hers.

If Annette turns back for one last glimpse of the sellsword’s back, Felix won’t see, any more than she’ll see if he sheds even a single tear for their parting.

* * *

_Dear Uncle,_

_It_ _’s with the greatest regret and grief that I inform you that my journey to Gloucester was not without tragedy. We lost many good knights to an Empire ambush from which only Ashe and I survived, and Ashe sustained enough grievous injury I didn’t realize he lived until he caught up to_ _~~us~~ _ _me (so I hope for his sake you were serious about bestowing a knighthood when he returns to Dominic). But I have arrived since a sellsword was kind enough to offer me his services as an escort and bodyguard._

_Count Gloucester though is quite stern so at first I worried I had displeased him in some way, but he warmed up to me after I presented him with your letter and he_ _’s already hired a seamstress to prepare a new wedding gown since I lost mine in the attack, among other things. I will wed Lorenz Hellman Gloucester in two days’ time. I hope you’re proud of me, Uncle! I hope Mother’s happy and everyone at home will be safe for it._

_Love,  
Annette_

_Dearest Mercie,_

_It feels like it took years, but we finally made it to Gloucester! I wish you could be here for the wedding in two days, though I_ _’m glad you didn’t have to endure the journey with me. When next we meet, I’ll be a married woman. Bet you never thought I’d marry before you, right?_

_Well, I have to confess something, because if I don_ _’t I’ll feel like I’ve imagined the whole thing and no matter how much it pains me I want to remember._

_The journey went nothing like planned, and I was forced to escape an attack on my escort. Only Ashe survived, but I didn_ _’t know it until we reached the estate and found him jogging up to us! It was a miracle, I was so happy to see him alive and well and smiling to be reunited that it helped temper my parting with… Well. Mercie, am I a terrible person for falling in love with someone who’s not my fiance and wishing I could be with him instead?_

_I should clarify it_ _’s not_ _ my _ _fault this came to be; it_ _’s his for being so much more than the sellsword I happened to convince to escort me to Gloucester. It just hurts so much to think I won’t see him again, and though having Ashe with me has been a comfort, I can’t look at Lorenz without wishing he was someone else. Is that unfair of me? I think it must be._

_Anyway, to end on a happier note, I_ _’ve decided to take up studying Faith like you always tried to encourage me! Also, I hope you’ll be able to visit soon, particularly next autumn because there’s a delightful harvest festival in a town nearby and I had the most delicious peach pie!_ _~~Felix bought it for me but refused to share it.~~ _

_Love,  
Annie_

Annette throws herself into whatever task she can lay her hands on after Count Gloucester welcomes her to the estate, and between wedding preparations, spending some time getting to know Lorenz, her fiance, and exploring the estate’s impressive selection of magic texts (the best she’s perused excepting the Royal School’s library), she’s…distracted.

Sometimes.

Other times she just finds something else to do so her thoughts won’t dwell so long on Felix.

It’s hard when even opening her song journal and remembering his curiosity about it and finding the tear where Miklan’s rent a page out to force her to write a note and how she let him flip through the pages just once _hurts_.

Count Gloucester was skeptical of her claims at first, staring down at her with an air of disapproval that made her squirm. She explained her extensive travels to him as best as she could, including the assassin’s attempts on her life and Miklan’s bounty hunting though excluding certain other…details, and at the end of it all he pronounced, “I promise you this, Miss Dominic, on my honor as Count Gloucester: so long as you reside in my home, no harm will befall you before your wedding day.”

When he introduced Annette to his son in his study upon her arrival (after allowing her a chance to freshen up, at least, though he didn’t spare her his judgmental gaze), Lorenz took her hand and kissed it before saying, “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Dominic.”

And Annette, with her stomach flipping with nervousness and her chest constricting with heartbreak, could only force a smile and mumble, “Likewise, um, Sir Lorenz.”

(She could’ve hit her head against a wall for that mistake. Alliance nobles rarely sought knighthoods.)

But Lorenz laughed and said, “If you do not mind, Miss Dominic, you may call me Lorenz since we are marrying in just a few days’ time.”

Her face warmed, more because she wasn’t sure if he laughed at her or at her mistake, but she nodded and agreed, “That’s fine. Then you can just call me Annette.”

The dropping of that particular formality certainly helps her feel more at ease in a strange place with strange people, never mind that she’ll have to be…intimate with one of them soon, but that’s another thing she just _can_ _’t_ think about yet.

What if she calls out Felix’s name on the wedding night? She’d die of either shame or humiliation, she’s _sure_.

In a moment where she can’t find any worthwhile distraction - while sitting for dinner with Lorenz and Count Gloucester, not the most stimulating of activities even when her noble fiance tries encouraging her to talk about herself - she wonders if she might’ve been better off if she and Felix never kissed. A part of her is grateful for the memory, and when she’s sure she’s alone she finds herself touching her lips and remembering pressing them against his, almost convinced it was but a dream she wishes she never woke from.

The rest of her almost resents him for leaving her nursing the ache in her chest like he did her sprained ankle or the wound in her arm, for making her fall in love with him only for him to leave her missing him and his voice and his presence and his arms around her so much she’s on the verge of tears every time she thinks about him too long.

The look in his eyes when he grabbed her hand and _begged_ her to stay with him haunts her, and how she hesitated, how she almost accepted him, how desperately she wanted to even as he promised her something she knew he didn’t - and would never - want for himself.

Annette sets aside the dagger he gave her - and tries not to imagine stabbing Count Gloucester for suggesting carrying it is too “unladylike” - and flips through her journal with an ink-tipped quill in her hands. Carefully she writes, _“No more words in my head, no more love left to give. Do I hate you, I can’t say, I wish you’d stayed anyway.”_

“Time heals all wounds,” her mother would probably say, but after witnessing her mother’s own heartbreak fester and cripple her - after failing to insist to herself she should not feel so strongly for a man she knew for barely a moon - the words are little better than a platitude when every time she looks at Lorenz she wonders how long it’ll take until she stops wishing he’s someone else.

* * *

Annette’s neck is noticeably bare, free of the necklace Ashe never saw her without so long as he’s known her. She toyed with it when nervous or agitated, tugging on the pendant like a lifeline, but now she has nothing except whatever else she can get her hands on - up to and including a simple dagger.

Ashe wants to ask her about her missing necklace but hesitates. Maybe the thugs that kidnapped her stole it, or maybe she was forced to sell it for coin. Maybe she even paid the sellsword for his protection with it.

“I still can’t believe you’re alive, Ashe,” Annette says on their second day at Gloucester Estate. It’s sometime after noon, and sunlight streams in through the high windows in the library, the dust motes swimming through the air and amid the towering bookshelves giving it a cozy feel the rest of the imposing manor lacks.

“Well, I’m definitely alive and breathing!” Ashe reassures her. He’s still not sure why Annette wanted him with her in the library - he’s never been good at studying, he still remembers her tutoring him in simple arithmetic when he arrived in Dominic to serve as her uncle’s squire - but after so long with her thinking him dead, he can guess.

Annette slides a book from the shelf and flips through it. “You’re not just a ghost, are you?” She levels a piercing, suspicious glare at him. “Come back to haunt me because I was the only survivor?”

“No, no, of course not!” he says, though he fails to suppress a shudder. “I’m definitely alive.” He holds his hand out to her and adds, “You can even pinch me, if you like.”

A smiles pokes at her lips, rare for her in the last two days, and she says, “I believe you, Ashe.” She hums to herself as she replaces the book only to slide out the one next to it. “Can’t remember…if this is the one Mercie studied first…”

“What are you up to anyway?” he wonders. He leans against the shelf beside her, eager to welcome her to talk, if only because her lack of smiles when he remembers her being so free with them worries him. “I thought you were busy enough preparing for the wedding.”

“I want to start studying some Faith,” Annette explains as she scans the table of contents of the book she grabbed. “It would’ve been really useful on the journey when F—when one of us was injured.”

Guilt tugs at Ashe then, at the thought of her wounded with no one to help her.

But she wasn’t alone, was she?

“So, uh, you hired a sellsword, huh?” he ventures. “What was he like? Anything like the rough but goodhearted ones in the stories?”

Annette slams the book shut and turns her back to him, facing towards the windows. “I don’t really want to talk about him,” she mumbles.

“Why not?” Ashe wonders. “He seemed like a good sort, and he got you here safely by himself, and if you miss him then—”

“I don’t want to talk about—I can’t talk about him, Ashe,” Annette insists, “not when I’m—anyway, I’m getting married in two days, and I have so much left to do before then, so I can’t waste time thinking or talking about things that don’t matter anymore.”

And when something in her voice breaks, Ashe thinks he might understand.

“Thanks for saving us, anyway,” Annette adds, and this time the smile she offers him is a little wider, a little warmer and more familiar. “He, um, he always took it hard when he couldn’t…by himself, so…thank you, Ashe.”

He smiles and rests a hand on her shoulder, and he’s not surprised when she wraps her arms around him so tightly he might suffocate if she holds on too long. Ashe hugs her back, happy that she’s here and they’re in each other’s company again.

“I missed you so much,” she mumbles, her voice muffled in his shirt.

He pats her back, and when she pulls away she rubs her red-rimmed eyes and sniffs. “You all right?” he asks.

Annette smiles, a little tremulously, and promises, “I will be.”

“You know, there’s nothing wrong if you…miss him too,” Ashe reassures her. “It just means you grew to care about him. That’s not a bad thing.”

“I didn’t,” Annette denies far too quickly for it to be true. “He was a selfish villain, even if he…protected me and comforted me and…bought me a peach pie and scared me when he—when he nearly died.”

He knows all he needs to now. Sympathy tugs at his chest, but he pats her shoulder. “Is it cruel of me to think it sounds just like a story?”

She snorts as she clutches the book to her chest, not meeting his eyes. “A little,” she says, “but I guess at least neither of us died so it’s not one of the tragedies.”

“Maybe this story just hasn’t ended yet,” Ashe tells her. “You don’t know what else can happen between now and the wedding.”

“You think he’d really swoop in during the ceremony and carry me away?” Annette scoffs, but for her tone pain laces every bit of her face. “He’s a sellsword, not a storybook knight, and even if he did, my uncle’s still counting on me to marry Lorenz.”

“That’s…true enough,” Ashe concedes with a sigh, his mind drifting to his own brother and sister still residing in Gaspard. Safely for now, and perhaps safely when war like the Empire’s been threatening finally breaks out, all thanks to Annette marrying an Alliance noble.

He still doesn’t quite understand how that works. Broken betrothals and doomed loves litter the old knights’ stories he adores, but he’s never thought about how it might hurt someone alive and close to him too.

“What kind of storybook knight would buy a woman a dagger anyway,” Annette mumbles under her breath. A giggle bursts from her, but there’s something fragile in it.

When she leaves the sunny security of the library for more wedding preparations or tea with her fiance, Ashe looks for something to do with himself. The Gloucester men-at-arms invited him to run drills with them, so he thinks he’ll scout the estate in search of the training grounds. He could stand to replenish his crop of arrows, or maybe to brush up on his skills with a lance before he returns to Dominic to receive his knighthood from the baron, but until then—

“…is in place, Marquis Vestra,” Count Gloucester’s voice drifts from the door to his study. It’s shut tight and Ashe doesn’t doubt it’s locked, but something about his low tone and the name he says - Vestra? Isn’t that an Empire house? - gives him pause.

“Good,” responds a chilling voice. “Do understand that Her Majesty is counting on you, and should you succeed she will gladly offer her…support in the coming Round Table Conference.”

“I am very grateful for her patronage,” says Count Gloucester. “I must confess, I was never keen on this match, but Lorenz liked that she was an alumnus of the Royal School of Sorcery, though they were not classmates.”

Ashe stiffens, his feet growing roots as he stands in place; are they talking about…Annette?

“So you allowed it?” The other man - Marquis Vestra - clicks his tongue in disapproval. “I never thought you the type to bend to your child’s will.”

Count Gloucester snorts. “As you can see, I have not,” he assures him. “It was never an advantageous match for my heir; if not for his own persuasion, I would’ve refused Baron Dominic. My family already has a Crest in its bloodline, and she lost whatever negligible dowry she had to offer to _thieves_. Even if she was from a more powerful house than Dominic, I cannot abide the future Countess Gloucester being such a clumsy oaf. And she’s hiding something; I wonder if those supposed bandits that fell upon her ruined her too.”

Ashe’s hands curl into fists, indignation on Annette’s behalf filling him. And what did Count Gloucester know about her? He only met her a day ago, yet he already decided she’s not good enough to marry into his family?

“Well, you have assured me that all is in hand for the wedding,” Marquis Vestra says, “so I will leave it in your capable hands. A pity your son must become a widower on his own wedding day.”

Horror grips Ashe, horror and ice creeping up his spine as he forces his feet to move before either count or marquis can swing open the door and find him eavesdropping. He jogs down the hall along polished hardwood, past portraits of dead counts and countesses and tapestries of harts and hunters and banners decorated with the Crest of Gloucester.

He darts out of the estate and into the idyllic gardens, sprinting past rosebushes amid perfumed air and a veneer of beauty hiding something rotten, and towards the training grounds. He bursts onto the yard, breathless and with his mind spinning, and frantically looks around for someone he can tell.

Ashe doesn’t want to believe that he overheard Annette’s future father-in-law plotting with an Empire official to kill her on her wedding day, in two days’ time, before the marriage alliance between House Dominic and House Gloucester can be sealed. And yet…

Gloucester men-at-arms spar and train on the dusty grounds. One woman wearing a captain’s coat barks orders at a man lying on the ground with an arm draped over his eyes before another offers him a hand up. It’s lively with weapons clashing and soldiers talking, but—

Ashe doesn’t know who he can trust; should he just grab Annette and convince her to sneak away from the estate in the dead of night with him?

But no, then Count Gloucester and the Empire both would send more men after them, so Ashe…

Ashe collects his belongings from his borrowed bunk in the soldiers’ barracks before slipping away from the estate. As he sets down the path leading the way he came, he hopes Annette will forgive him for leaving her alone before the wedding, with time so short he can’t even spare any to warn her.

It’ll be worth it, he insists. He just has to find the one person more invested in keeping her alive than he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *screams about formatting italics in ao3*
> 
> anyway sorry about the Ashe subterfuge. i would never want to kill a precious cinnamon roll, especially not one with a ~~roll~~ role left to play ;_;


	14. skip over my wedding day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix picks a couple of fights, and Annette steels herself to face her fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all i apologize for the delay in updating considering the fic has been functionally finished since May or June. i just got preoccupied with Fluffcember, and netteflix Secret Seteth (which I was running too; definitely [check out the fics](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Netteflix_Secret_Seteth_2020) if you haven't already), and some real-life things, and also editing fics i've had done is kind of a drag, especially if it's really close to the end and i want that ending to be as satisfying as possible ;_;
> 
> but anyway, here it is, the penultimate chapter! hope it was worth the wait!

Felix doesn’t realize he’s set foot inside the same inn where he and Annette stayed on their next to last night together until after he pays for a room. It should’ve been _obvious_ too, since the instant coin changes hands, the innkeeper greets him, “Welcome back! But where’s your wife?”

His jaw and chest both tighten. “You’re mistaken,” he tells her, rather than _about to marry another man_. “I’m not married.”

She blinks at him, confusion written all over her face as she hands him the key to the room. “But that woman you were—” She quiets when he shoots her a withering glare, and she mutters, “Enjoy your stay.”

Felix passes into the common room and tries to shut out the sounds of revelry. There’s no more festival in town so it’s not as crowded as last time, but a group in one corner bursts into uproarious laughter over their card game.

At least no bard contributes to the racket; if he hears someone who isn’t Annette singing he might have to smash his fist through someone’s face.

Felix can’t escape this ugly, insatiable side of him that just _wants_ : more strength, more distance from his past, more…Annette. She’s as much a part of his past now as any of his family, any of his friends, yet he can’t push her from his mind like he can then.

Logically he knows it takes time, that maybe even within a few days the memory of her smiling face will blur as much as anyone’s he’s lost, but right now…

Right now he needs a distraction, because picking at his dinner and twining the delicate silver chain from Annette’s necklace through his fingers earn him nothing but an awful ache he can’t dismiss.

He scans the common room’s other denizens, thinking that maybe one of them would be willing to hire a lone sellsword just off another job, or maybe one of them spoils for a bout of exchanging blows themselves. That man in the corner with a silly hat dresses fine enough to be a merchant needing a guard for his merchandise, or maybe the group gathered around their game of cards will come to blows over a bad hand, or—

“Hey, you!” A woman with orange hair cropped short drops a heavy bag onto the empty chair opposite him. “You look like you could use a good time.”

Irritation flickers in him; the last thing he wants now is to be _propositioned_ , he’s not _Sylvain_ who can so easily seek a distraction with flesh. “Go away,” he tells her. “I’m eating.”

“Really?” The woman rests her hands on her hips and raises an eyebrow at his bowl. “You’ve been sitting here for a while already, but your food’s gone cold.”

“What do you want then?” he demands. “If it’s not important, leave me.”

“Hey, no need to be rude.” She offers him a hand and says, “I’m Leonie. I’m a mercenary, and I’m looking for a drink and maybe a bit of company for dinner, but I wouldn’t mind treating you if it came to it.”

Felix stares at her hand but doesn’t take it, hoping she’ll get the hint without him having to spell it out for her.

She tugs it back with a frown. “All right then…you don’t even want to hear what I have to say?”

“I’m not interested,” he insists.

“Aw, why not?” Leonie moves her bag to the floor to sit in the chair opposite him. She props her elbows on the table and leans a little towards him. “You do look pretty strong, but I bet I can take you in a fight.”

His ear catches on the one word. He glances at her, his attention snagged, and echoes, “A fight?”

“Sure.” Leonie shrugs and smacks her closed fist into her open palm. “You’re a mercenary, right? I guess it was pretty rude of me to just sit here and demand you buy me a drink, so why don’t we fight for it? Loser buys for the winner.”

Felix appraises her, thinking…he doesn’t care much for drink when his line of work requires he keeps a clear head, anymore than he likes the direction his thoughts tend to take when inebriated. (Some can find solace in drink, but he’s never been one of them.) Still, someone _willingly_ offering to fight him is too tempting to pass up when his blood and muscles both spoil for it.

When he wins, he can always relinquish the drink she buys him to her since she wants it so badly she’s willing to fight someone for it.

And Felix just wants to fight.

“Deal,” he says, so abruptly Leonie’s eyes widen.

“Hey, really?” A slow smile tugs at her lips before her eyes wander to his hip. “A swordsman, huh? Then why don’t we brawl for it?”

Felix shrugs. It makes no matter to him, and he doesn’t carry a dull blade for random sparring matches.

“All right, let’s go!” Leonie sounds far too cheerful for someone about to engage in a fistfight, so Felix stands and follows her out of the inn and into the courtyard more sedately. A guard on-duty eyes them suspiciously, but when she waves at him he shrugs and returns to reading a pamphlet.

Felix removes his scabbard and leans it against a wall so it won’t slow him down or catch in something, and by the time he straightens Leonie crouches low in a ready stance, her gloved fists raised.

“Let’s avoid the face, shall we?” she suggests. “You’re pretty enough it would be a shame to mark you.”

His jaw twitches - his lip still smarts when he bites it, and who is he meant to impress with his face anyway? - but he rolls his eyes and says, “Fine. Avoid the face.”

He mirrors Leonie’s pose, fists up to block any blows. They start circling each other, her eyes on him critical despite the slight smirking playing about her lips. She exudes confidence, but he’ll wipe that smile off her face.

Felix lashes out first. His blood rises with the exhilaration, eager for a challenge, a diversion from his thoughts before they spiral again, so he lets his fist fly.

Leonie steps away from him and follows up with her own swift punch. He catches it with his arm and rolls back with the force.

“Not bad,” she tells him as she dodges another punch. “You know, most swordsmen I fight are noblemen who can barely throw a good punch, but you’re pretty—”

Felix strikes, impatient with the talk, impatient with any voice that isn’t the one he needs to hear. He hits her with a swift blow to the ribs below her elbows but only succeeds in nudging her backwards. The next blow he puts more power behind, and this time she blocks him with both arms.

But then she kicks, and her foot hooks around his ankle. His heart jumps into his throat as he fails to find his footing and falls.

His back hits the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs and making the lanterns blur into streaks of orange light, but before he can jump to his feet Leonie’s fist digs into his throat.

“Huh,” she says, her eyebrow quirking, “you didn’t last as long as I expected. You all right in there, Mister Sellsword?”

Felix flinches at the nickname and shoves her off him to sit up. His ears burn when he realizes they’ve attracted a small audience, including the innkeeper standing near the apathetic guard while wringing her hands and a disgruntled-looking inn patron that passes a few coins to one grinning, but he pays them little mind.

“I’m fine,” he lies. His heart races still, though he barely exerted himself with the fight in the end, not when his thoughts keep snagging on something else.

_“Goodbye, Felix.”_

The one thing she wanted from him was for him not to leave, and then he _did_.

“Here.” Leonie steps away and offers him a hand. “I’ll help you up, and you get me that drink.”

He accepts her hand and lets her tug him to his feet. He collects his sword and latches the scabbard onto his belt, barely listening to her convincing the nervous innkeeper that it was just a bit of harmless fun between “friends”.

Felix doesn’t bother pointing out they just met.

He shills a coin out for Leonie to have her drink, and, expecting this to be the end of it, makes to retreat upstairs and try not to lie awake all night thinking of Annette - and why should he? So many nights too wary of danger or too aware of _her_ should be overwhelming him.

Instead Leonie grabs his arm and hauls him into the same chair he vacated earlier.

“So,” she says, appraising him over the top of her tankard, “what’s your problem?”

Felix crosses his arms and leans back in his chair; nothing is stopping him from standing and leaving, and he’s certainly not in any mood to be manhandled anymore.

Leonie hums almost thoughtfully before observing, “Seems like you need a drink more than me, Mister Sell—”

“Felix,” he grumbles. Her stupid nickname approximates Annette’s - _Sir Sellsword_ \- too closely for comfort.

“Aha, so you do remember how to talk.” She grins at him, balancing her chin in one hand, and Felix wonders what he did to deserve her attention. “So what’s the deal? You weren’t giving it your best.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” he grouses, well-aware he sounds petulant and childish but unable to stop.

Annette would give him grief for it, he knows, whether through a withering look or telling him off outright for his moodiness…

“So you’re a sellsword?” Leonie tries again. “You looking for a job or are you on one right now?”

Felix swallows, as if that does anything for the tightening in his chest, but admits, “I just finished one.”

“Did it pay well?”

He forgot how much some mercenaries like talking, and talking about _work_ , talking about tips for new jobs and which employers are bound to pay well or which might shortchange them. His fingertips find the necklace in his pocket, and he says, “No. I did it for nothing.”

Leonie blinks once, twice, three times before she sputters, “Y-you did a job for _free_? Why did I think you could afford to buy me a drink?”

“The one before it was more lucrative,” he concedes with a shrug, though his heart skips a beat remembering the Demonic Beast almost killing Annette.

He buries his face in his hands and groans, frustration flickering within him. _Every_ thought, every word, everything leads back to her.

He jumps when something touches his shoulder and jerks up to find Leonie withdrawing her hand. “Sorry,” she says, chagrined. “Thought you looked like you needed a bit of…comfort.”

“Not from you,” he retorts. He knows he sounds harsh, even expects her to flinch or get up and leave - she got her drink; why can’t she leave him alone? - but she doesn’t.

Leonie crosses her arms on the table and says, “You’re kind of a bastard, Felix.”

He scoffs, “What’s your point?”

“I’m just wondering if there’s a stick up your backside, or if you’re just having a really bad day. Or are you that much of a sore loser?”

Felix’s hand tightens around his spoon, which he picked up just to have something to hold. His heart thumps painfully, perhaps at being found out by a perfect stranger. “Do you want to fight me again?” he wonders. “Or are you really not getting the hint that I’m not here to socialize?”

“Well, I _guess_ I wouldn’t mind fighting you again,” Leonie says, “but I doubt it’ll be worth it for either of us while you’re so…distracted. I definitely won too easily, so there wouldn’t be much fun in beating you again.”

He glares at her - see how distracted he really is - and wills her away.

“If you do want any tips for other jobs,” she continues, either oblivious to his irritation or just uncaring, “Count Gloucester sometimes hires mercenaries for the odd task. He pays pretty well too, unlike your last employer.”

Felix wishes he can say that he’s a solid brick of ice, but he knows, from the way Leonie’s eyes narrow, he must show some reaction on his face.

“You know Count Gloucester?” she wonders. “Huh, I could’ve sworn you’re from the Kingdom by your—”

“I don’t know him,” he corrects her. “I’ve been hired by a few Alliance nobles before, but he’s not one of them.”

“Then what’s with that look?” Leonie leans towards him as if she wants to scrutinize him closer. “Count Gloucester isn’t a great person, I guess, but he’s pretty fair to his people, if a little…arrogant.”

Felix’s hand, resting on the table, curls into a fist; unless she stops talking and veering into dangerous waters, he may have to incite a fight for himself.

“Personally I think his son will be a better leader,” Leonie continues, “but that’s just—”

Felix’s Crest flares as he bends his spoon backwards.

She jumps to her feet, alarm all over her face, and demands, “What was that?”

The spoon clatters to the table, bent evenly in half, while his pulse rushes past his ears. He glances around the common room, wary of anyone else noticing, but with all the other occupants absorbed in their own affairs, only Leonie stares at him.

He scrubs a hand over his face and grumbles, “That usually only happens in battle.”

To his surprise, she resumes her seat and says, “So I, uh, am not sure I want to know why a random sellsword has a Crest - that _is_ a Crest, right? - but I do really want to know what you have to do with Count Gloucester.”

“Nothing,” Felix denies. “Absolutely nothing, for which I am very, very glad.”

“All right…” Leonie grabs her tankard and takes a long draft before setting it back down again. “What about L—his son?”

“Why do you need to know?” he demands. “It’s none of your concern.”

“He’s my friend, obviously,” she says, “and if you have an interest in him, I want to know why.”

“You? Friends with the Gloucester heir?” He sneers, “Then why aren’t you on your way to his wedding?”

Leonie sighs, sounding more morose than he expected of her, and admits, “Because I wasn’t invited. No one wants a random commoner mercenary at their noble wedding.” She rolls her eyes and sips at her drink. “You owe me another drink for that scare, by the way. _Mister_ Sellsword? More like _Lord_ Sellsword…”

“Right, well…” Felix, deciding he really has had enough, and that any further discussion involving the name _Gloucester_ will lead to him punching someone who doesn’t want to be punched, shoves his chair back and stands. “I’ve had enough.”

“Hold on!” Leonie calls to him. “I want to know how you know Lorenz. How do I know you’re not some assassin sent after him?”

Felix freezes the same time his chest constricts painfully all over again. He’s not sure how much of this he can take, anymore than he doesn’t know when he can forget Annette and return to the redundancy of seeking jobs and seeking thrills.

But Leonie’s question makes him _laugh_.

She crosses her arms while he collects himself, waiting for an explanation or for him to share his joke. But it’s far from amusing, in truth, and even when things were right in his world (if there ever was such a time), he rarely laughed.

“I’m not an assassin,” he tells Leonie when he catches his breath, “and I just spent the last three weeks protecting his fiance from one.”

“Huh.” She raises her tankard to her lips then, finding it empty apparently, sets it down without taking a sip. “She’s a noble too, right? And she didn’t even pay you? Is that why you’re so moody? I’m sure Lorenz would’ve footed—”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Felix cuts her off. His blood boils anew even if Leonie hasn’t technically insulted Annette, but his evening seems to be angling from worse to absolutely abysmal.

“Oh.” Leonie smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I think I see. You have feelings for her.”

His chin juts out as he glares. “So what if I do?” he says. “What does it matter to you?”

“Nothing, I guess,” she concedes. “I mean, unless you are planning on killing Lorenz out of jealousy or something…”

His jaw twitches, and Felix can’t pretend he never considered…something, but he says, “No. I know when I’m not wanted.”

Except…he was, somehow. Annette hesitated when he made his frantic, desperate proposal, and she kissed him with as much fervor as he did her.

But he’s left her now, gave up too quickly; she won’t want him back. Now she’ll have _Lorenz_ to take her hand and hold her when she’s upset and listen to her sing and take her to the opera. She won’t need Felix with his blood-stained blade and his discarded legacy and his sour moods.

He’ll just take his keepsake of hers and keep her songs in his head for when he needs them most; he won’t be so selfish as to demand her too.

“If you’re worried about it,” Leonie says then, “Lorenz isn’t a bad guy. His father’s not great, that’s true, but Lorenz will take care of her.”

“Shockingly,” Felix grits out, “that doesn’t make me feel any better.” Maybe it should if he was more selfless like Annette, and he could be happy for her and relieved that someone will protect her and love her better than he can.

“Well, I guess that’s to be expected.” She stands up and pats his shoulder, and he doesn’t bother shrugging her away. “Say, why don’t _I_ get you a drink so you can forget about her? My—”

A commotion bursts out from the inn’s entryway. A voice rises before the innkeeper protests, “Sir, please, we have _rules_!”

“I know, I know,” the other argues, “but I’m looking for someone and this is the only inn in town, so—” A young man bursts into the common room, a mop of silver hair on his head and a quiver of arrows dangling from his hip. He scans the crowded room, and before Felix can recall his name, his eyes land on him.

“Felix!” Ashe greets him, his tone frantic as he marches towards them, ignoring the innkeeper insisting that he needs to pay for a room before he uses the common room. “I need to hire you for a job!”

The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, seeing Ashe here and rushing straight for him. He cranes his neck to peer around him, hope that he’ll find Annette just a few paces behind him, perhaps tripping over a chair, swooping in his chest at odds with the knot of dread in his abdomen.

But she’s not with him, so Felix doesn’t care.

He tilts his chair back on two legs and says, “I’m not in the mood for a job right now. Go back to Annette.”

“That’s the thing.” Ashe halts beside him, his face red from exertion and his jaw set with a stubbornness Felix recognizes from himself, and from Annette. “I-I’ll go right back to Gloucester Estate, I just needed to—you protected Annette for weeks, didn’t you? Would you do it one more time? She’s in danger, but I can—”

Felix’s chair falls to the ground, but he stands before it lands. He grabs his bag off the floor, and when Ashe’s jaw drops he says, “Tell me what’s going on while we’re on our way.” He jabs a finger into Ashe’s collarbone and adds, “And tell me why you left her alone knowing that.”

“What?” Ashe gapes at him like a fish. “But I haven’t even offered to pay you yet!”

“Doesn’t matter.” He’s already walking towards the door, past the floundering innkeeper. At the last second he thinks to toss her the key to his room since he won’t need it anymore.

His heart pounds against his ribs, expectant and tight, but this, at least, Felix knows how to fix even if it requires seeking the same woman who turned her back to him.

The same woman to whom he nearly gave his life to keep alive - maybe he doesn’t want to see all that trouble go to waste, or maybe some foolish part of him hopes she’ll change her mind if only she lays eyes on him again.

At the last moment he remembers Leonie, who stares between him and Ashe with wide eyes. “I hope for your sake your count’s heir won’t give me a reason to kill him,” he tells her, surprised to find he means it.

“Then I hope you know I’ll hunt you down and kill you if he does,” Leonie retorts. She smiles.

Felix almost smiles back before turning to Ashe and announcing, “Let’s go.”

* * *

Ashe still hasn’t returned by the morning of the wedding, and Annette starts to get nervous. Going through with marrying Lorenz already proved difficult enough when— _before_ , but if Ashe isn’t here to stand beside her, she doesn’t know if she’ll have the spine for it.

No father to give her away, no mother to cry tears of joy, no Mercie to help her prepare and reassure her when she frets or give her bawdy advice to tease her, just a groom she barely knows whose poetry leaves her numb.

Annette rubs her eyes and stares at her reflection. She pokes at the faint bags under her eyes and supposes she can hide those, at least, with makeup. She sits at the vanity, stalling until she has to try forcing down breakfast, and spins the dagger in her hands.

It catches the weak sunlight streaming through the window, intensifying it to a shine.

Felix might as well have cut out her heart to take with him with this stupid dagger.

She doesn’t want to attend breakfast with Lorenz and Count Gloucester, doesn’t want to think about tying herself to their family for the rest of her life, doesn’t want to think about how her family’s fate in a looming war may very well hinge on it. Her stomach flips with something like nerves, and she doesn’t want to think that anyone else might interpret it as anxiety over the wedding night.

Annette definitely doesn’t want to think about _that_ either.

She rakes a brush through her hair and thinks that, if Felix walks through her door right now, she might just be weak and desperate enough to flee with him without hesitation, as if real life works like it does in the knightly romances Ashe loves.

* * *

Gloucester Estate crawls with activity when Felix and Ashe finally arrive at its gates. Men-at-arms call out to one another, and a few carriages roll through the drive bearing noble or merchant families to witness the wedding. An air of restlessness envelops the grounds, and Felix isn’t sure if it infects him or if he carried the same energy with him.

Likely the latter. It consumed him from the instant Ashe barged into the inn’s common room and told him Annette was in danger, and even the single night they spent on the road gave him little respite.

“Where’s Count Gloucester?” Felix demands. They’re through the gates - the guards recognized Ashe, at least, as Annette’s sworn man, though they spared Felix no suspicious glances, not that he cares - but without knowing the layout of the estate or the details of any designs on Annette’s life, he can’t begin to navigate a plan of his own.

His ignorance scares him almost as much as the niggling fear that they’re already too late.

“He’d probably be in the chapel by now,” Ashe says, though his brow furrows, as if he’s unsure.

Felix curls his hands into fists so he doesn’t seize him by the collar to shake him. “ _Probably_ doesn’t help us!”

“Well, what were you planning to do when you find him?” he hisses. “We can’t just k—I mean, his men are everywhere!”

His heart pounds wildly in his chest, eager to find someone to stab; is it not enough to simply kill the mastermind of this plan?

“Look”—Ashe grabs his arm and tugs him out of the path of a few incoming ladies dressed in wedding guest finery—”let’s split up, all right? We should probably find Annette first; if we can get her away, maybe Count Gloucester won’t have a reason to kill her.”

A part of Felix doubts that, but the other, weaker, illogical part of him grasps that chance. His foolish heart skips a beat, and he says, “Fine. We’ll find Annette. Now how do you propose we smuggle her out of her own damn wedding?”

“I’m, uh, I’m working on that,” Ashe offers with a sheepish smile. “If it’s any consolation, I used to be a thief. I have lots of experience in smuggling!”

“How does that help us sneak a grown woman away from a crowded estate?” Felix wonders.

“It doesn’t look like the ceremony’s started with so many people out here,” Ashe guesses, “but I’ll check the chapel and the grounds. You go check the manor, you probably look enough like a noble guest’s man-at-arms to blend in.”

“And then what?” He tries not to let on that his feet itch to scope out the grounds and manor for himself. Over a day of fast travel, pushing himself to reach the estate in time…desperation rises higher within him by the second.

“Let’s meet back at the stables by the end of the hour,” Ashe proposes. “I think by then the grounds should be empty enough with all the guests at the chapel. If you don’t find her, then I’ll have found her, and if we need to we can steal a couple horses to get away that much—oh, good morning, Master Lorenz!” He throws up a hasty - and sloppy - knight’s salute at the same time his hand closes around Felix’s arm to yank him out of the path.

A tall young man with a long nose and violently violet hair lays eyes on them. “Oh, good morning, Sir Ashe.”

“Oh, um, I’m not a knight yet,” Ashe corrects him feebly.

The man, who Felix can’t mistake as anyone other than Annette’s intended, ignores him but says, “We’ve missed you the last two days. Annette has been beside herself worried about you.” His gaze slides to Felix then. “I’m sorry, but who’s this? Another friend of yours from the Kingdom?”

Ashe’s face pales, his freckles stark against his skin, but he says, “Yes, uh, this is—”

“We’re in the middle of something,” Felix cuts him off. He can’t help leveling Lorenz with a glare; he doesn’t know if he’s in on the same plot as his father, but he doesn’t need to for loathing to consume him on sight.

Lorenz frowns. “I see,” he says. “Do you require assistance? I can find a servant to help if needed, though they’re quite busy with last-minute preparations for the—”

“No, no, it’s fine!” Ashe tells him before Felix can say something else biting. “We’re just, um, we’re just looking for Annette!”

His eyes narrow, and Felix half-hopes he’ll accuse them of something so he’ll have a good reason to introduce his fist to his long nose. “She should be preparing for the wedding,” he says, “though I confess I’m not sure if she’s in her room or in the chapel.”

“Perfect, thank you, Master Lorenz!” Ashe says. He makes to tug Felix along, but Lorenz rests a hand on his shoulder to stop them.

“What is this about?” Lorenz wonders. “I doubt you’ll be able to see her while she’s preparing, especially with a…strange man.”

Irritation flickers in Felix that Annette’s fiance would have the audacity to stall him from saving her life, and maybe that’s why he snaps, “Your father is about to kill your fiance if he hasn’t already and we don’t know if you have anything to do with it, so if you don’t get out of our way I won’t hesitate to cut you down.”

“Felix…” Ashe mumbles, but he pays him no mind. His heart hammers in his throat, but he can’t regret his words.

Lorenz’s eyes widen with shock, but when he reels back a step that’s the opening Felix needs.

“The chapel,” he reminds Ashe, but he’s already sprinting towards the manor, heedless of any pursuit the Gloucester heir can send after him.

Felix slows once he steps through the tall double doors and into a grand entryway. The heels of his boots click against the polished marble floor, and the grandeur of the staircase across from the doors rivals his childhood home enough to give him pause even with the wrong Crest on the banner streaming from the banister.

But he’s not here to drown in memory when he needs to find Annette.

He climbs the stairs, dodging around an alarmed maid who drops an armful of laundry and slipping past a valet bearing a tray. When he reaches the landing, he raps on doors at random, unsure which ones are guest bedrooms - would they even have put Annette in a guest bedroom or already moved her to the family’s quarters? - or just disused parlors or studies or whatever.

His blood rushes faster for every door from which drifts an unfamiliar voice or silence rings out, his step more desperate, fear rising higher and higher into his throat.

“Please,” he practically begs as he sets foot on the fourth landing. “Where are—”

A musical voice, low as a whisper, drifts down the hall towards Felix. His feet freeze to the landing, tension gripping his spine and his blood rushing with anticipation before he takes another step.

The surge of familiarity washes over him. The voice - _her_ voice - draws him in, a moth to a flame, a captive at heart, a weak man seeking strength.

_“…it was only yesterday, I’d throw it all away, skip over my wedding day…”_

He stops before a door left ajar, from which a sliver of light spills through the crack. His hand hovers over the wood, and he’s almost torn between his reluctance to disrupt the song and his own urgency.

He swallows around the dryness in his throat and nudges the door open.

Felix’s breath sticks in his lungs when he finds Annette standing with her back to the door before a floor-length mirror. She wears a wedding gown a few shades lighter than her blue eyes, the hem so long and trailing she’s sure to trip over it while walking down the aisle, as if whichever foolish seamstress that designed it didn’t know the woman who would wear it at all. Her veil hangs from her head in a film of gauze that hides her orange hair, but the reflection of her pale, lightly freckled face in the mirror is unmistakable.

She’s beautiful, Felix thinks, but he thought so even when she wore a torn, dirty dress and had scrapes all over her face, before it hurt so much just to look at her, before he let her go.

Before he returned to her anyway.

Annette’s eyes in the mirror flick up and widen the instant they land on his reflection.

“F-Felix?” she stutters. “Am I dreaming, or is this some cruel hallucination?”

* * *

When Annette looks up at the mirror at the sound of footsteps, she expects a maid or a courier come to tell her it’s time to face her fate in the chapel.

Instead she finds Felix, his gaze on her, sharp enough it stabs and shoots heat through her. A wild hope swoops within her, but logic tempers it.

She doesn’t dare turn around in case he’s not real, in case his reflection is just a figment of her imagination brought on by lack of sleep or nerves.

But then he approaches her with his arm outstretched and says, “I’m real, I swear.”

Annette spins around with heat rushing to her face, and she can’t stop herself from demanding, “Then why didn’t you _knock_? This is my room, I could’ve been—”

Felix seizes her arms and pulls her into an embrace. Her face falls against his chest, and his arms hold her close when a sob bursts from her throat. She ought to shove him away and insist she’ll soon be wed to another man, but right now with the emotion welling within her and bursting through the dam she didn’t realize she built, she just wants him to hold her one more time.

His heart pounds against her cheek, fast but steady, and she finds some small comfort from that. Only a few days parted, but she resigned herself to never seeing him again, yet here he stands, as warm and secure as ever.

“Y-you’ll wrinkle my dress,” she protests, not that she means it, not when she wraps her arms around his back and squeezes him tighter. _Please take me away,_ she wants to say. She wants to heed his parting words and do something for herself; her uncle isn’t there to stop her, and she doesn’t much care what Count Gloucester thinks either.

(She might feel a little bad for Lorenz, but only a little.)

Felix pulls away, and it takes all of Annette’s self-control not to cling to him. But his hands still grasp her arms and he says, “We have to leave.”

Her jaw drops, and her heart skips a beat. “What?”

“I’ll explain on the way,” he promises. “How quickly can you change into something less conspicuous and that won’t trip you?”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” she bites out without bothering to remind him she can trip well enough over nothing. “I can change…in a few minutes, I think.”

“Then do it,” he says, “because we _have_ to go.” He turns around - perhaps to give her privacy to undress - but adds, “Your friend is waiting for us.”

“Wait, wait, Felix,” Annette protests, grabbing his hand, “I want—” She cuts herself off and swallows, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze, before continuing, “You have no idea how badly I want to just leave with you, but the estate’s crawling with guards and wedding guests, you can’t just kidnap the bride!”

“Annette,” Felix says, and when he cups her face she stiffens, “Count Gloucester is plotting to _kill_ you, and we still don’t know if your own damn _groom_ knows of the plan too.”

The air in her lungs freezes, and a trickle of fear runs down her spine. “What?”

“Right now,” he says in a low, insistent voice that makes her heart skip a beat, “I just need you to be safe, and you’re not safe here in the home of someone who wants you dead, so please come with me, Annette.”

It all feels unreal, Felix’s abrupt reappearance to his quick explanation of how she still isn’t safe after all, and despite this new danger she can’t help the smile quirking at her lips, that here he is with her again.

She’s nodding before the last of his plea leaves his mouth, and her fingers tighten around his. “Let me, um, give me a bit to change,” she says.

But she’s barely let him go to take off her veil when a discordant symphony of footsteps bursts into life beyond her open door. Felix spins around, his eyes wide when they land on her, and he grabs her hand at the same time Annette grabs her dagger from where it lays on the vanity.

“New plan then,” he says as they dart towards the door. “Where’s the servants’ stairwell?”

“It’s—”

—too late. A flood of soldiers dressed in Empire regalia streams in through the doorway. Annette steps backwards on reflex, her heart jumping into her throat and her fingers tightening around the hilt of her dagger as a tall woman in armor and with an ax hanging from her hip strides in.

Felix unsheathes his sword in a blur of motion, standing between Annette and the Empire’s soldiers. “Dammit,” he swears under his breath.

The woman glances at him, her lips pressed together. “We have no quarrel with you, sellsword,” she says. “I’m only here to arrest Miss Dominic.”

“For what?” he demands.

“For trespassing on Empire territory with intent to do harm,” says the woman.

“Intent to—what?” Annette snaps. “I haven’t done anything to the Empire!” She summons the magic always at her fingertips, prepared to fight her and Felix’s way out.

“No,” Felix says through gritted teeth. “They just have a problem with your existence.”

Annette’s mind buzzes, trying to think of a way out; even if they can cut their way through the soldiers barricading them in her room, she doesn’t know how many await them on the landing or elsewhere in the manor or on the grounds. And Ashe…

What if they’ve done something to him? She refuses to lose him again.

But…the window! They’re on the fourth story, but there’s a narrow ledge just beneath it so perhaps it can still be their salvation.

Annette grabs Felix’s left wrist. “Maybe,” she says when he angles his ear towards her, “we can escape through the—”

The window crashes inward, glass flying everywhere. She raises her arms to shield her face the instant before Felix shoves her away from the impact, but a shard slips her guard and slices her forehead.

A gasp escapes her at the sting, but when her eyes flicker open her breath sticks in her throat.

A dead man stands on her bedroom floor surrounded by a sea of glittering glass, his eyes bright and mean and raving, and an awful, predatory smile tugging at his lips. He raises a curved sword and points it at her.

“You first,” Metodey pronounces with a cackle, “and then your lover.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic has two sequels i will never write and one of them is leorenz because i like them too ~~even if they're not otp material~~. also i should write Leonie more...i like how she and Felix bounce off each other
> 
> ANYWAY nearly forgot BUT [Rose](https://twitter.com/Rose3Writes?s=20), my beta reader and an all-around good friend to have, gifted me with [this very lovely art](https://twitter.com/tomaarrie/status/1341846491791577092?s=20) from Chapter Seven by very skilled and amazing artist [tomaarrie](https://twitter.com/tomaarrie/), on Twitter for your viewing pleasure (and don't forget to shower the artist with praise; seriously all their stuff is so cute, i die for their mercedue fan art especially).
> 
> that's probably enough for one end note...thank you for reading! next chapter is the end >:)


	15. i want to follow you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the goddess closes a door, she leaves a window broken...or however the saying goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it...the final chapter. I hope you enjoy the end of the ride!

Felix thought he reached the limit of his anger and desperation after these Empire soldiers burst through the door intent on arresting Annette, but when the bastard who pursued them so doggedly and very nearly killed her in front of his eyes crashes through a window, he sees red.

There’s neither time nor opportunity for confusion or for questions and answers, not with the assassin returned to life pointing a sword at Annette.

Felix strikes.

It doesn’t matter if he killed Metodey before, it doesn’t matter if he failed last time or every time before that; he’ll kill him a hundred more times if that’s what it takes to keep Annette safe.

His Crest flares as he lashes out, the force reverberating up his arms when Metodey raises his sword to block his strike. Distantly he hears the soldiers trying to converge on them, but in the small bedchamber they find no advantage.

Annette whips up a devastating wind. Pages and blankets stir, curtains flap, and when the glyph glows a gale slams into Metodey’s chest before he can retaliate against Felix.

“You’re not hurting him again!” she rages, her eyes blazing and her veil knocked off her head. “You won’t hurt _anyone_ again!” She spares no fury for the Empire’s troops that crowd her room, heedless to the dust raining from the ceiling and the remaining window’s glass trembling in the frame.

The soldiers don’t stand idle.

Felix dodges a man that launches himself at him with a wild swing of his spear. He knocks his weapon aside with his sword and punches him across the face. His nose crunches under his fist, the noise almost satisfying, but he shoves him away before he can hope to recover.

As the soldiers flood in, he fights to keep Annette in his view. She wields the dagger he gave her what feels like so long ago in one hand and channels storms with the other. Sweat beads down her forehead, and it’s all she can do to keep her distance with a heavy gown slowing her down.

Metodey slits the throat of an Imperial soldier as he closes in on Annette. “I don’t care who gets in my way!” he screams. “ _You_ made me lose face with Her Majesty, so _you_ will pay for my failure!” He dives under the trajectory of a weaker spell she blasts at him and lunges.

Annette stumbles backwards, a gasp escaping her as his sword tears through her gown and stains the pristine blue with red. Felix’s heart jumps into his throat, and he shoves his way past the weak soldier desperate to engage him. Anger and the fear scrabbling for a grip in his chest make him faster, stronger, but when something crashes into him he falters.

The woman who wanted to arrest Annette stands over him, ax raised over her head. “You’re interfering with Empire business,” she announces in a clinical voice out of place in the chaos.

“I don’t give a damn about Empire business,” Felix snarls. And he won’t let this woman get the drop on him like Miklan did.

He blocks her first blow with his sword. She recovers quickly, gaze sharp on him as she swings again towards his side.

His left arm catches the head of her ax, steel tearing through his sleeve and cutting through his flesh right over his elbow, but he grits his teeth against the fire flaring in his left arm and lashes out with his right.

The tip of his sword slips under her arm and through a gap in her armor. She recoils with a shout, pain twisting her face. Felix shoves her backwards with a foot against the chest to unsheathe his sword from her flesh.

The clashing of weapons engulfs the room and the corridor beyond, along with the drifting of shouts. “Captain Ladislava!” a soldier yells from the doorway before pivoting around, holding up a spear with a shiny, bloodstained tip. “We’re under attack!”

“What?” Distracted, the captain leaves Felix to consult her soldier, but neither she, nor this new disturbance, nor the blood already making his sleeve stick to his skin concerns him when he needs to regain sight of Annette.

She wobbles where she stands mere paces away from the shattered window, glass crunching under her feet and one arm outstretched. Blood stains her torn gown in several places and a cut stands out against her cheek, her hair’s careful styling in utter ruin with braids torn out of place. Yet with her tormentor closing in on her she snarls, as fierce as any cornered beast.

Her spells are more feeble, her energy spent both on Metodey and any weak-willed Empire soldiers trying (and failing) to approach her, not that Felix with his sword still sharp and thirsting will let any of them through _him_. But the assassin is swifter and more cunning than an average soldier, and he knows how to dart around Annette’s spells and avoid the sting of her dagger.

Metodey’s strikes test her range and her dwindling strength rather than seeking to end it, as he bides his time for the moment she’ll falter. He laughs, the sound the high-pitched cackle of a madman, and announces, “Both of you must die! However long it takes”—Annette throws herself backwards and away from a half-hearted lunge—”we can dance this dance all day. But don’t worry, I won’t tell your groom about h—”

Annette trips over the hem of her absurd wedding gown, and when she falls she crashes into Metodey.

Felix dives for them, blade carving a path through the air while his heart threatens to launch itself from his chest. “Annette!” he screams.

Metodey stumbles, his eyes wide with shock with Annette all but clinging to him, but he recovers quickly. He raises his sword at the same instant Felix lunges.

He throws his sword at Felix. He steps backwards to avoid it - he’s fought him before, he should’ve expected a ploy like that - while Metodey wrestles Annette for her dagger. “You will not”—he hisses when her elbow digs into his side—”escape this time!”

“Neither will you!” she shrieks with anger written all over her pale, blood-streaked face. She raises her dagger and drives it towards Metodey’s chest.

He catches her wrist and shoves her hand aside, only for Annette to plunge the blade into his shoulder.

Metodey shouts but doesn’t so much as step back or stumble. He raises his eyes as she wrenches the dagger from his flesh to stab him again, and he catches Felix’s gaze.

Metodey’s lips curve into a smirk. “I am rather sorry my embrace will be your last,” he says almost solemnly. Then he wraps both arms around Annette and jumps.

Felix’s heart leaps with them. His legs move before he can command them, the hilt of his sword slipping from his grip as Metodey drags Annette through the remains of the window.

They ram through glass. She gasps as the sharp edges tear at her, gasps as the assassin jumps and tries to take her with him.

Felix runs, panic making him faster, drowning out the shouts of the Empire’s soldiers trying to chase him and failing with their weapons clashing against their ambushers’, and his hand closes around Annette’s wrist at the same instant she reaches up.

But Metodey’s hold on her fails, and he falls with a startled yelp. Felix can only just hear the sickening sound of his body striking the hard ground four stories below.

Annette stares up at him with wide, terrified eyes, dangling by her wrist from his grip. His heart beats against his ribs, but he swings his injured arm around to seize her. Somehow, with a great heave of effort and despite the pain alight in his arm, he drags her up and through the window.

She falls into him with a gasp, her hands catching his arms as he stumbles backwards away from the window and she finds her feet. A hiss escapes him when her fingers brush against the gash in his arm, and she lets go, her eyes widening, before her hand finds the tear in his sleeve again.

“You’re hurt,” she realizes in the instant before she keels over.

Felix’s arms slip around her to hold her upright. His chest tightens, fear trying to overtake his reason as his memory flits to another time and another place, before he understood what she means to him and how desperately he wants her with him.

He cups her cool, clammy face, avoiding the cut on her cheek that he doesn’t know how to heal, but one of her hands finds his and holds it against her cheek.

Her eyes flutter open, and a faint smile pushes at her lips. “I-I’ll be all right,” she says in a weak voice. “I’m just—it’s just magic exhaustion.”

Felix swallows around a lump in his throat as he leans down to press his forehead against hers. “Don’t let me leave you again,” he tells her.

Annette’s touch is lighter than a feather when her fingers brush the hair away from his face. Her breath wisps over his skin as she softly sings, _“If you must leave, take me too, wherever you go, I want to follow you…”_

Her voice washes over him, soothing and steadying and exactly what he needs.

Her other hand finds the wound in his arm, and for her warmth so close to him he almost doesn’t recognize the faintest flash of a white glyph and the cool trickle of white magic seeping into his skin. The fire fades, tempered by the healing spell, and he raises his face to stare at Annette.

She smirks and says, “I was hoping to practice that on someone soon.” Her smile falters. “I wasn’t hoping it would be you…”

Felix’s eyes narrow. “Save your strength,” he says. “I-I’ll find someone else to take care of it while I take care of you.”

Annette hums as her eyes slip shut.

Distantly he’s aware of another battle dwindling, of another force subduing the Imperial soldiers, of a mildly familiar voice ordering, “In the name of Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, you _will_ stand down!” But for once Felix has no interest in retrieving his sword and fighting.

He just wants to hold Annette and listen to her breathing even out, the sound sweeter than any of her songs and proof that she lives and he cradles her in his arms.

* * *

Annette wakes alone in a dark room, the last threads of a dream falling away as she lifts her heavy head to gaze around. She doesn’t recognize her dim surroundings, but the bed she lies in is comfortable for her aching body and the pillow is nice and soft for her aching head.

But she recognizes recovering from magic exhaustion.

She bolts upright, her heart racing as she raises her hands and finds them clean of blood. When she touches her face a soft bandage on her cheek greets her fingertips, and she feels the cushion of a layer of linen on her arm and around her abdomen underneath the nightdress she’s wearing.

She remembers some injuries, some pain and some blood. For a moment she mourns the beautiful wedding gown, and guilt smarts at her for the coin that went into sewing it so quickly, before deciding it no longer matters.

Annette swings her legs out of bed and pads towards the door. Her feet sink into plush carpet, so unless she misses her guess she’s in a guest bedroom at Gloucester Estate rather than her own.

She supposes even Count Gloucester is kind enough he wouldn’t make her recover in a room with a shattered window.

To her relief - she half-worried it would be locked and she would find herself a prisoner - the doorknob turns and the door swings open without resistance. She pokes her head outside and looks up and down the hall until a maid catches her eye.

The maid approaches and offers her a shallow curtsy. “Good afternoon, Miss Dominic,” she says. “Are you feeling well? Are you hungry? I believe Master—I mean, Count Lorenz will be taking dinner soon if you—”

“ _Count_ Lorenz?” Annette gasps. “How long was I asleep?”

“Ah, um…” The maid clasps her hands together before she smiles very slightly. “I only know the gossip, I’m afraid, but I’m sure Count Lorenz would be happy to enlighten you since you are his fiance.”

She winces - at least they weren’t wed while she slept off her magic exhaustion; women must be conscious to wed these days, but legends are littered with cases so curious as slumbering brides - but says, “Yes, I guess I’ll take dinner with him.” She needs to know everything that happened after she passed out, after— “Wait, uh, can you tell me what’s become of the—the man who—um, the, uh…did you meet a sellsword named Felix?”

The maid frowns and admits, “I don’t know, Miss Dominic. I’m sorry.”

Annette’s heart plummets with disappointment. “Oh, that’s, um, that’s fine.” She can’t suppress a sigh. “I’ll just get dressed for dinner with Lorenz then.”

“I’ll tell him you’ll be joining him,” the maid says, and after curtsying again she flits back down the hall on the new errand.

Annette retreats into her new room. She curls her hand into a fist over her heart and wonders at the ache. Surely she didn’t imagine Felix holding her as the darkness took her, surely she didn’t imagine his palm pressed against her cheek after she fell and he caught her, surely she didn’t imagine his promise to take care of her. Were his injuries more numerous than that wound on his arm?

Though he left - though she forced him to leave - before she suddenly can’t imagine a life where he’s not there to catch her when she falls.

Annette adds one more item to the list of the things she needs to ask Lorenz.

She swallows the most dangerous of her emotions while she dresses for dinner. Her head spins if she moves too quickly, her body still not quite recovered from how much energy she expended while fighting the assassin even if her wounds healed - if he still lives she’ll lower (or _shove_ ) him into his grave herself - but she feels reasonably well when she steps out of the room and walks the familiar path downstairs to the dining room.

Lorenz awaits her alone. He sits at the head of the table, where his father did for every other meal.

He stands when she enters and, ever courteous, pulls the chair to his right out. When she sits, he nudges it in before resuming his own seat.

“How are you feeling, Annette?” he wonders. “The healers have patched up all your injuries, but they also told me you suffered magic exhaustion.”

“I’m well,” she tells him. “Still a little dizzy, but I’ll be fine. Not the, um, well, it’s not the first time this has happened.” And the last time wasn’t that long ago.

Felix took care of her after that Demonic Beast knocked her unconscious, and she thanked him by throwing accusations at him once she woke.

“I regret it had to happen this time,” Lorenz admits. A server brings their first course, and they both pick at it, apparently neither very hungry. “I wish an apology was enough to make amends for what my father did.”

“So he, um, wanted to…kill me?” Annette says.

“It appears so.” Lorenz sits back with a sigh. “I knew he was ambitious, but I never suspected he would go to such lengths. I wouldn’t have minded if he wanted to, ah, terminate our match, and I suspect you wouldn’t have minded either.”

She squirms in her seat, her ears warm, and finds herself at a loss for words. “I guess the match wouldn’t have done your house as much as good as it would’ve done mine,” she concedes.

“I believe that was his reasoning,” Lorenz says, nodding. “I rather think that, while your house itself may not offer mine much, your own contribution would be far grander.”

Annette blinks at him, surprised. “I, um, thank you?” she says. “Are you…praising me?”

“Yes, well, your skills speak for themselves,” he says. He smiles slightly, perhaps emboldened when she hesitates, and continues, “You held your own against an assassin intent on killing you, and I’ve witnessed you throw yourself into broadening your knowledge in just your short time here in Gloucester. And unless I’m mistaken you’re something of a connoisseur of poetry as well.”

Her face warms, and she reaches for her wine glass for a sip so he can’t hear her splutter. “It’s, um, no, you’re too…you’re too kind, Lorenz.”

“On the contrary,” he says, “but I won’t belabor it if you’re embarrassed.”

“Th-thank you,” she says, and when she manages to collect herself she sets down her glass and inhales.

She needs to ask about—

“So the man who escorted you here,” Lorenz says before she can work up the nerve to say another word.

“Uh…Ashe?” Annette doubts he means Felix, since they never met as far as she knows. “Is he all right, by the way? I hadn’t seen him in a few days before the—well, I haven’t seen him.”

“He’s doing well, I believe,” he tells her. “A few of my men caught him trying to steal a couple of horses”—Lorenz’s face darkens with disapproval—”but we’ve since come to an understanding. He’s eager to see you too, so as soon as we’re through with dinner I’ll send word to him that you’re awake.”

“Yes, please do,” she says. A smile pushes at her lips - she would surely give Ashe grief for leaving her days before the wedding, whether he had a good reason and brought Felix back with him or not - but it falters quickly when Lorenz says:

“I actually wanted to ask you about the other man.”

His almost grave tone and the way he now avoids her gaze make Annette stiffen. She clasps her hands tightly on the table, and her heart hammers against her ribs. “O-oh? Is he…how is he? Was he hurt worse than—worse than I could heal?”

Does she sound casual? She doesn’t know if she even _should_.

“He is also well and healed,” Lorenz says, “and quite worried about you. I had to confine him to the barracks and set a guard on him after he tried to crash into the manor in search of you again, and he _did_ trespass on the estate. I cannot so quickly dismiss such a transgression whether his warning of the danger to you was timely or not.”

Annette flushes, though her chest warms, and suddenly she wishes she wore a dress without such a high collar. “O-oh, that does sound like Felix.” Then she hears _everything_ he said. “Wait, his warning?”

Lorenz nods. He takes a careful, almost deliberate sip of his wine before setting the glass down. “Yes, it is, oddly enough, thanks to him I knew something was afoot and could assemble enough men _I_ trusted to combat the Imperial troops my father allowed onto the estate.” He frowns then and adds, “Though I didn’t care for his threatening my person.”

“That…also sounds like him,” she admits with a sheepish smile.

“Yes, well, the reason I speak of him is because…” Lorenz sighs and, to her surprise, rests a hand on hers. “Despite the events of the last few days, I am still willing to fulfill my father’s end of the arrangement he reached with your uncle, if that is what you desire.”

Annette stares at his hand engulfing hers and doesn’t wonder why she feels nothing. She slips her hand away and reaches for the wine glass, eager for something to moisten her tongue so she won’t say the wrong thing and risk offending him more than she wants - _needs_ \- to. “I, um…” She licks her lips and tries again, “What if it is not what I desire?”

Lorenz withdraws his hand. “Then I will still honor the arrangement without sealing it in marriage,” he explains. “I have no wish to bend to the Empire; I’d sooner see my ambitions to fruition without their patronage.”

Annette releases a breath, and though her heart races with renewed anticipation and excitement thrums through her veins, tension still fills her. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this,” she says. “Is there some way I can repay you? Other than marrying you, of course, because I, um…I’m sorry, I just can’t do that.”

“I understand,” Lorenz says. “I do confess to being rather…galled that you would choose a simple sellsword over Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, but I suppose you do not stand to inherit your uncle’s seat, so you don’t experience the same stakes in your marriage as I do.”

Irritation flickers in Annette. She can think of any number of retorts - that the “simple sellsword” he so easily insulted alerted him that his father posed a danger to his fiance, that the “simple sellsword” saved her life more times than she could count, that the “simple sellsword” was, in fact, the runaway heir to a house more powerful than his own - but instead she snaps, “Felix is more than a ‘simple sellsword’ to me, Lorenz.”

“I know.” He smiles very slightly, but Annette tries not to think about the sad edge to it. “However brief our acquaintance, it was a pleasure getting to know you, and I hope we can at least still be friends.”

Annette offers him a smile and says, “I wouldn’t mind that. Thank you.”

* * *

Felix can’t stand still. In the last day he’s “rested” more than he has in the last week or so, and between seeing Annette unconscious before giving her over to a healer in the aftermath of the battle in her bedchamber and the tail that the Gloucester heir - now the new Count Gloucester - set on him to keep him from “traipsing” through the manor the wait is agonizing.

He’s taken on almost every man and woman residing in Gloucester Estate’s barracks and, whether they yielded to or defeated him, he found no relief in it. Several new bruises litter his chest and legs, but they’re nothing to the worry gripping him and turning his stomach into sand.

Ashe lurks nearby, his anxiety manifesting in his twitching hands. His fingers are cracked and bleeding from plucking too much at a bowstring, and Felix almost envies him the distraction of that pain.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Felix,” he reassures him again. “She’s strong, which I’m sure you realized while traveling with her.”

“I know she’s strong,” he grumbles. He perches on a bench and buries his face in his hands. “But no one will tell me how she is, so I just need to—”

“Ashe! You’re here! Have you seen—Felix?”

He bolts upright and jumps to his feet, heart skipping a beat in anticipation. His breath sticks in his lungs when he finds Annette staring past Ashe at him, her blue eyes wide and alert and… _healthy_.

A smile blooms across her face, and one of his own pushes at his lips to answer it.

He approaches her, trying not to let his pace betray his nerves or his eagerness, and says, “You’re…awake.”

“Yes, I’m awake, as you can see.” She bobs a shallow curtsy. “I’m even walking on my own two feet.”

Felix is horrifyingly relieved she no longer wears a wedding dress, but then another, awful thought grips him. He takes her left hand and turns it over. “You’re not married yet, are you?”

Annette’s smile turns bemused. “N-no?”

He scrubs a hand over his face and sighs, but he finds himself at a loss to explain why that answer… _relieves_ him so much.

How can he explain to her the depth of his feeling? How can he tell her how he refuses to let her go again?

Unless she…wants him to. For what sort of life is that of a wandering sellsword to share with a woman who deserves all the comforts of a noble?

Yet Felix cannot help the hope swooping in his chest, that little spate of selfishness, for surely after everything she won’t turn him away, not after the last song she sang for him before she fainted. They traveled across the continent together, and he can’t bear to think of parting from her again.

“Do you, um, do you want to go for a walk?” Annette asks then. She glances sideways at Ashe - Felix almost forgot he stands there, watching them with the slightest smirk on his lips - before looking back at him. “I…like walks, and the gardens here are pretty.”

“Yes,” he tells her. She could ask him to walk through the Valley of Torment with her, and he would agree in a heartbeat.

“Then, um…I’ll see you later, Ashe,” she says, her eyes narrowing at him.

Ashe, not the slightest intimidated by Annette’s glare, grins. “Have a nice walk, Annette.” His smile widens. “And Felix.”

Felix rolls his eyes but follows Annette away from the training grounds and down a winding stone pathway lined with hedges. They walk in silence for a few moments, into a courtyard with a burbling fountain and perfectly trimmed rosebushes blooming with wide pink and red blooms.

His heart pounds a syncopated beat against his ribs, but he waits for Annette to collect her many thoughts.

“Ashe left to find you, didn’t he?” she starts.

He’d expected her to suspect as much, so he nods. “Yes,” he says. “Found me in the last inn we spent a night.”

Her brow furrows very slightly - he wonders if what happened between them that night passes through her mind as it does through his - but she asks, “Why _did_ you come back?

Felix’s feet halt almost without his consent, and when Annette turns to face him with another question in her eyes he somehow finds the courage to take one of her hands - small and soft but hardly delicate - in his. “I…” His mouth dries, but still he says, “How could I _not_?”

Her gaze lowers, any trace of the smile that was on her face earlier falling away. “I wasn’t your…wasn’t your problem anymore,” she says. “And you wouldn’t know if I’d changed my mind or—” She breaks off with a light gasp when he squeezes her hand and tugs her closer.

“I wasn’t going to let anyone ruin my hard work,” Felix says. “You did hire me to keep you alive, didn’t you?”

Humor flickers across her face, but she rolls her eyes. “Well, I thank you for your dedication, Sir Sellsword,” Annette says. She smiles, something perfect and kind that shoots warmth through his chest. “If not for you being so awful at your job, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now.”

_Awful?_ Felix’s jaw drops, because that’s the last thing he expected to come out of her mouth. “What?” he says. “Awful at—how many times have I saved your life?”

“More times than I want to count,” she admits. She holds her hand up and starts counting with her fingers. “There was the assassin in the stables before I even hired you, then Miklan, then the Demonic Beast—”

“That was—Annette, you’re listing times I failed too,” Felix says. His ears burn at the undeserved praise, and he can’t look her in the eye when she halts in place and turns to face him.

She rests her free hand on her hip and demands, “If you failed, would I be standing here having this conversation with you?”

His chest tightens, and just to make sure she _is_ alive and standing with him, his fingertip finds her pulse under her wrist, thrumming strong beneath her skin. He strokes the soft skin there, and when her cheeks color, he concedes, “I suppose not.”

A smirk curls her lips. “I told you so,” she says, “but I wasn’t talking about saving my life or not.” She tangles their fingers together, standing so close to him she tilts her head back.

“Then what do you mean?” he wonders, though with her face so distractingly close it’s a wonder he can even wonder.

“You took a job without getting paid,” she says with a grin.

Felix finds he really, really wants to kiss the smile off her lips, so he closes his eyes and says, “Your friend offered to pay me.”

“Did you accept?”

His jaw tightens but he shakes his head.

“You’re more like a knight than a sellsword, I think.”

His eyes shoot open, narrowing when they land on her face, but Annette pats his cheek and laughs. “What’s so funny?”

“The look on your face,” she says. Her fingers catch his chin, and his breath hitches when her gaze slides down. “It’s just that, um…maybe this is a little silly, but…”

“Tell me,” he prompts her when she trails off, desperate to know anyway.

“On my—before you found me after I got dressed,” Annette explains while her cheeks flare into a brilliant red, “I thought that if you were to come and steal me away like a knight from the stories kidnapping his lady to save her from an unwanted suitor, I wouldn’t have minded.”

Felix’s eyebrow twitches. “Those stories are drivel,” he says. “Full of needlessly devoted fools and—” He cuts himself off when the realization strikes him with the force of a lightning bolt. He scrubs a hand over his face to muffle a groan.

“Yet you were there,” she says. She smiles again, and he thinks - like a “devoted fool” himself - he would do anything to keep it there. “Maybe they’re not _that_ silly.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, if reluctantly, “but I wasn’t trying to steal you from your—from _him_ , no matter how much I might’ve…wanted to.” His own face warms under her touch, but he leans into it.

“You wanted to?” she echoes, her eyes widening as if he doesn’t already feel how painfully obvious it must be.

Felix nods and confesses in a low voice, “I don’t want my life to be just mine anymore.”

Annette sucks in a breath as her flush darkens. “Felix…” Her hand falls away from his face to rest on his shoulder.

“Do you remember what I asked for when you finally offered me payment?”

Annette blinks, her lips shaping into a confused frown. “You wanted my necklace and to read my song journal,” she replies. “What about it?”

He dares to rest his forehead against hers, his heart pounding faster, and he hears the instant her breath stutters when he whispers, “I lied.”

“O-oh?” Her voice cracks, and she sounds almost nervous.

But Felix is more than ready to take the plunge. Selfish or not, he can’t bear the burden of his feelings alone.

“What I really wanted to ask for,” he says, “was you.”

He closes the dwindling gap between them. Their lips slot together as Annette’s hand rests against his neck, right over his own vibrant pulse. He cups her face in both of his hands, the better to angle her to press closer, as close as he wants when she presses back.

She tastes like sugar and magic, but for once Felix doesn’t mind the sweetness. Better, he savors it and her, from her soft cheeks at his fingertips to the sigh that escapes her.

When they pull apart, Annette’s face flares as red as his must. The urge to escape, to shove away the overwhelming wave of emotions, doesn’t grip him like last time they kissed, but she doesn’t quite look him in the eye as she asks, “Then can I have my necklace back?”

Felix laughs, once and sharp, and wonders, “Does this mean—”

Annette throws her arms around his neck in reply. He catches her against him with his arms slipping around her waist and buries his face in the side of her neck, just to breathe her in.

“Yes,” she whispers. “I want—I love you.”

“What about…what about your family?” His stomach flips while he waits for her to respond, but he knows it’s important to her, so it’s important to him in turn.

“They’ll be—they’ll be safe.” Annette pulls away from his embrace to smile at him. “I don’t have to marry Lorenz. I can be as selfish as I want”—her hand rests against his cheek again, and Felix finds he likes it there—”and I want you.”

He presses his lips to her cheek, his chest filling with an unusual giddiness - though he never wants to hear the names “Lorenz” or “Gloucester” ever again - as he holds her close, exulting in the relief that he’ll never have to let her go.

But then Felix does when she requests he help her slip her necklace back on. He peels her hair away from her neck as she stands with her back to him and clasps it. She grins when she spins around to face him again, her expression wide and open before she wonders, “What now?”

He wraps his arms around her, just because he can, because he wants her close. She leans into him with a contented sigh and returns his embrace, holding tight.

“We have a little coin left from the Demonic Beast job,” he reminds her. “Maybe it’ll be enough to take us to Derdriu.”

“I’ve heard it’s nice this time of year,” Annette muses. She tilts her head back till her eyes catch his. “And after that?”

“Work again,” he says.

“Nothing too dangerous, I hope,” she says, her gaze turning steely.

He presses his temple against the crown of her head as a smile prods at his lips. “Why not?” he asks. “I have a partner now.”

Felix doubts he’ll ever grow tired of how easily Annette blushes. “I’ll repay the favor,” she promises as she slides her hands up his chest to grasp his collar.

He snorts as he holds her close. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he says. “Losing you once was one time too many.”

Annette blinks as if startled, but he can’t imagine why his words would surprise her. “Then that makes both of us,” she says. She tugs him down.

Her breath warms his face, and he feels her eyelashes flutter as he whispers his own words of devotion against her lips before claiming them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished the first draft of this fic waaaay back in June (or maybe May? maybe!) for the Felannie Mini Bang. at the time it was the longest fic i'd ever finished, and i think looking back i'm still really proud and happy with how the story came together.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read it from when i started posting and stuck with it to the end, and thank you even if you're stumbling upon it now and just made it to the end (if you're one of those people who waits for that little green check mark to appear). I really treasured each and every comment, and if this fic brought someone even a little bit of joy in these trying times, then that's all I can ask by sharing it. Also big thanks to [Rose](https://twitter.com/Rose3Writes) for beta reading and just being an all-around great and encouraging friend! 
> 
> And if you want you can always catch me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/gazelle_gazette) too. But no pressure of course!

**Author's Note:**

> [Here's Shen's amazing art](https://twitter.com/animeshen/status/1300529909979181056?s=20), which you should go shower with praise! Sadly uh it'll be quite a few chapters till we get to that scene... Rest assured the fic is complete and I expect I'll update every other week (alternating with my other netteflix long fic). For now, i hope you like it so far, and i'd love to hear your thoughts <3


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